TALES 



EMS AND ESSAYS 



BY 



ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD 



Biographical &Mtf) 
By GRACE A. OLIVER 




BOSTON 
ROBERTS BROTHERS 

1884 



37 T3 



Copyright, 1884, 
By Roberts Brothers. 



University Press: 
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Memoir of Mrs. Barbauld. By Grace A. 
Oliver vii 



The Hill of Science: A Vision ..... i 

Against Inconsistency in Our Expectations 6 

To-morrow 15 

Riddle l$ 

On Education 16 

On Prejudice 27 

The Baby-House 39 

Dialogue in the Shades ........ 40 

Knowledge and Her Daughter : A Fable . 49 

Washing-Day 50 

True Magicians 53 

A Lecture on the Use of Words .... 61 

The Caterpillar 64 

Earth 6s 

On the Uses of History 68 

Fashion : A Vision 93 

Description of Two Sisters 100 

Pic-nic 102 

Written on a Marble 105 



VI CONTENTS. 

Letter from Grimalkin to Selima . . . . 105 

Allegory on Sleep 109 

A Hymn 112 

On Friendship 114 

Confidence and Modesty: A Fable . . . 119 

On Expense 121 

The Wasp and Bee: A Fable 127 

The Young Mouse: A Fable 128 

Alfred: A Drama 129 

Canute's Reproof to his Courtiers . . . 135 

The Masque of Nature 137 

Things by their Right Names 139 

The Goose and Horse : A Fable 140 

On Manufactures 141 

The Flying Fish 152 

A Lesson in the Art of Distinguishing . 153 

The Phenix and Dove 161 

The Manufacture of Paper 162 

The Four Sisters 166 

The Pine and the Olive : A Fable .... 170 

On Riddles 172 

Hymns in Prose 176 






MEMOIR. 



Anna L^titia (Aikin) Barbauld was born at the 
little village ot Kibworth-Harcourt, Leicestershire, 
England, in 1743. This admirable and gifted woman, 
whose name has long been dear to those who, as child- 
ren, have read her " Hymns in Prose," with the " Early 
Lessons," in short words, and then passed to her 
essays and fables for the young, will be gratefully re- 
membered by many who have passed into middle life. 
To an earlier generation of readers this name was as 
well known as that of any writer in the language. 
Then came a time when the literature for children 
assumed a different aspect, and floods of trivial, light, 
and sometimes very inferior books were prepared for 
the young. 

Amidst the thousands of such books put before the 
public in the last fifty years, how few survive even the 
first decade, and how rarely one finds a story — a book 
— worthy of preservation or purchase. Some are unob- 
jectionable in their tone, but many more are positively 
hurtful in their influence. We have stories for little 
children which are exciting, — inciting them to mischief, 
or rousing their minds to fear and dangers which they 



VU1 MEMOIR. 

ought not to experience until years have brought dis- 
cretion and strength of character. Then, for boys and 
girls of larger growth, the tales of thrilling adventure 
which are constantly appearing, give them a distaste 
for quiet pleasures, home life, and domestic virtues. 
A buffalo hunt, an escape from Indians, or frightful sea 
tales furnish the ordinary food for growing boys, while 
many books for girls fill their minds too soon with a 
desire for society and gaiety. Notable exceptions to 
this class of literature are to be found, and should be 
named if space allowed. 

The peculiar mission of Mrs. Barbauld as a teacher, 
writer, and inspirer of the young may be briefly ex- 
pressed by a view of the work she did in reforming 
literature for the children of England. 

When the darkness of the middle ages became illu- 
minated by the dawn of a new era, and the influences 
of Eastern literature were gradually felt, after the re- 
turning Crusaders introduced a glimpse of Oriental 
warmth and vivifying power among the nations of 
Western Europe, the renaissance of popular learning 
progressed rapidly and with a wonderful result. 

The imagination of the East acted like a magic 
power upon the dead literature of the Western world. 
It can only be compared to the softening influence of 
spring rains upon the ice-bound fields left by winter's 
frost. 

The learning of Europe — the literature of the an- 
cients — was almost entirely confined to the monas- 
teries and palaces of the dignitaries of the Roman 



MEMOIR. IX 

Church. That great power held all the important 
offices in Church and State, and science and literature 
crouched helpless in the chains imposed upon them by 
the religious autocrats. Justice should be done to the 
Church of Rome, for, while it held the power in its 
own hands, it did take the charge of the bodies and 
souls of its people ; but monks and nuns were unfitted 
by their life and vocation to carry the beneficent work 
of teacher and writer beyond their own narrow horizon. 
To the East, therefore, we owe that flood of warm light 
and life which came with resistless force, sweeping away 
the old fancies and conventionalities, and preparing the 
way for the thinker, the student, the poet, and the artist 
of modern times. Works of imagination held the field 
and supplied the need of generations of young readers, 
till the immense revulsion of opinion and feeling which 
preceded the French Revolution. The encyclopedists 
in France, with the new views put before the world 
by a race of educators, among whom may be named 
Rousseau, De Genlis, the Edgeworths, Mrs. Barbauld, 
Pestalozzi, Jacotot, Froebel, and Diesterweg, completely 
altered the old style of writing for children, and revolu- 
tionized the process of instruction all over the world. 

Mrs. Barbauld may be justly ranked among the bright 
and shining names of the great leaders in this educa- 
tional movement. She was descended from a stock 
of teachers, married a clergyman in charge of an acad- 
emy, in the management of which she assisted for 
years, and her practical knowledge was of great value 
to a large number of scholars, and by her writings she 



X MEMOIR. 

drew an immense circle of little minds within the range 
of her powerful influence. 

While many who love the name of Barbauld asso- 
ciate it with the exquisite hymns still sung in our 
churches, and others rank her among the essayists 
of our language, for her clear impartial thought and 
elegant style, it is as a writer of admirable works for 
the young that she will be long remembered. The 
names of Barbauld, Ann and Jane Taylor, and Maria 
Edgeworth will bring back many recollections to older 
readers, and their works may still be read with pleasure 
and advantage by our children. 

With genius and powers of mind uncommon in her 
sex, cultivation of the highest order, womanly charms 
and accomplishments which fitted her for the most bril- 
liant society and the highest walks of literature, what 
Dr. Johnson said of Dr. Watts' character and writings 
is not less true of Mrs. Barbauld, — that she " conde- 
scended to lay aside the scholar, the philosopher, and 
the wit, and write little poems of devotion and systems 
of instruction adapted to their wants and capacities, 
from the dawn of reason through its gradations of ad- 
vance in the morning of life." 

Mrs. Barbauld was descended on her father's side 
from a Scotch family, her father, John Aikin, D. D., 
being the son of a Scotchman who was settled in Lon- 
don as a shopkeeper. Mr. Aikin was originally intended 
by his father for a business life, but after some time 
spent in a city counting-room, his health was so seri- 
ously affected by the confinement to a desk, that he 



MEMOIR. XI 

was sent into the country. Dr. Doddridge, who was 
well known in devotional literature, had succeeded Dr. 
Jennings in his academy at Kibworth-Harcourt, was 
his teacher, and influenced by him he sought and 
obtained his father's permission to engage in the 
ministry. 

After becoming Dr. Doddridge's assistant in his 
academy at Northampton, he married Jane Jennings, 
the daughter of the Rev. Mr. Jennings, and, again ob- 
liged by ill-health to give up his occupation, he resigned 
all hope of the ministry which he had entered, and 
giving up his congregation at Leicester, he opened a 
school of his own at Kibworth. Mr. Aikin was an 
accomplished scholar and a worthy man. It was said 
of him by one capable of judging, " Every path of 
polite literature had been traversed by him, and trav- 
ersed with success. He understood the French and 
Hebrew languages to perfection, and had an intimacy 
with the best authors of Greece and Rome superior to 
what I have ever known in any dissenting minister 
from my own experience." 

On her maternal side Miss Aikin was descended 
from an ancient and respectable family of some impor- 
tance in Bedfordshire. Her grandmother was Anne 
Laetitia, one of the daughters of Sir Francis Wingate, 
of Harlington Grange, Bedfordshire, by his wife Lady 
Anne, daughter of Sir Arthur Anglesey, First Earl of 
Anglesey, and Lord Privy Seal under Charles II. One 
of the family held the exalted office of " Master of the 
Bears," to Queen Elizabeth. Miss Aikin says : — 



xn MEMOIR. 

"Sir Francis, in his elaborate letter of declaration to 
the Lady Anne, still preserved, I think, values his estate 
at ^iooo per annum, and promises to keep a coach and 
six. The Earl, her father, gave her several thousand 
pounds. Bishop Burnet writes of this noble lord, that 
he had sold himself so often that at length no party 
thought him worth buying. He seems indeed to have 
feathered his nest pretty well, but was certainly an able 
man. We may take comfort, roguery is not hereditary, 
folly often is. 

"Grand were the preparations made at poor Harlington 
for the reception of the bride. The hall, and state bed- 
chamber over it, were fitted up on the occasion. The 
chamber was hung with tapestry, 'disfiguring and repre- 
senting' the judgment of Paris, and other classical stories ; 
the bed was of crimson damask, richly adorned with 
fringe and gilding ; there was a handsome Japan cabinet, 
heavy arm chairs, and toilet ornaments to match, and a 
dressing-room within ; splendors which excited my youth- 
ful awe and veneration, decayed and faded as they were, — 
but as for Lady Anne, tradition says that she sat her 
down and cried, when she saw to how poor a place she 
had been brought as her future home. Her husband 
looks in his portrait very good natured, but heavy enough; 
the Lady Anne — let us hope she was of a sweeter tem- 
per than she looks in hers. She was a stiff Presbyterian, 
her husband a jolly Episcopalian, who said, somewhat 
bitterly, that when he was gone she would certainly turn 
his great hall into a conventicle. Perhaps this thought 
had set an edge on his zeal, when, in the character of a 
Justice of the Quorum, he committed John Bunyan to 
Bedford gaol for unlicensed preaching, — the only mem- 
orable action of his life, as far as I am aware. 



MEMOIR. xin 

"But that an old family mansion must absolutely have a 
ghost, — in fact, it would be almost as disgraceful to the race 
to be without one as to want a coat of arms, — I would 
not be so undutiful to my great-great grandmother as to 
tell the tale ; but it is a matter of necessity, so here it is. 
The lady Anne had a friend who, unknown to her husband, 
had made up a purse, the contents of which she destined 
to be shared among her children by a former marriage. 
On her deathbed she entrusted to her this deposit. Lady 
Anne, I dare not say with what thoughts, she being then 
a widow, and hard pressed enough, delayed to deliver over 
the money. One night, she was startled by a mysterious 
rustling in a certain long, dark, crooked passage into 
which her chamber opened ; the rustling — yes, she could 
not be mistaken — of a silk gown, the very gown of her 
departed friend. It passed on to a certain narrow door, 
at which something seemed to enter, and the rustling 
ceased. Her ladyship paid the money next day, and 
nothing was ever heard or seen more ; but some people 
had an odd feeling as they passed that door, leading only 
to the china-closet, within my memory. 

" A more favorable trait of Lady Anne has been pre- 
served. She possessed two beautiful miniatures, evidently 
a pair ; one represented her brother, Lord Altham, the 
other a lady, so lovely in feature, and still more in ex- 
pression, one was never weary of gazing upon it. Lady 
Anne was accustomed often to take it out of her cabinet 
and weep tenderly over it ; so far her daughters could 
attest from their own knowledge, but she would never 
inform them whom it represented, or what had been her 
story. Lord Altham, worthy to shine amongst the court- 
iers of Charles II., had three wives living at the same 
time ; the first of these deceived and unhappy ladies was 



xiv MEMOIR. 

probably his sister's friend; yes, it must have been her 
wrongs over which she shed these frequent tears ; and 
shame at her brother's treachery and wickedness doubt- 
less tied her tongue. 

"Sir Francis died in middle age, leaving his lady with 
three sons, and six ill-portioned daughters. Some few 
notices have reached me of all the six sisters. Mr. Moore, 
the husband of the eldest, was a clergyman, very poor, 
very honest, and the simplest of the simple. He would 
sometimes borrow a trifle of his mother-in-law, giving her 
an acknowledgment in these, cautious terms, ' I promise 
to pay, if I am able.' ' My dear ' he once cried out to his 
wife, ' a great rude girl came and robbed our apple-tree 
while I was in the garden.' 'And did you let her?' 
'How could I help it?' Neither could he help his sons' 
going to ruin. Another sister married a Dr. Hay, a Scotch 
physician. 

" The sons all possessed the estate in succession. . . . 
By way of retaliation, I suppose, for his persecution of 
Bunyan, two of the daughters of Sir Francis married dis- 
senting ministers, — not in his lifetime, however. One was 
Mrs. Norris, the other was Anna Letitia, my great grand- 
mother. One died single, aunt Rachel, of whom all I 
know is that she had the honor to have Rachel, lady 
Russell, for her godmother, — the families being in some 
way related." 

Mrs. Barbauld's mother "was presented at court by a 
lady of the Annesley connection, no small distinction in 
those days. She was sprightly, not without personal 
charms, and had a natural talent for singing. The result 
of the whole was, that her honored tutor 1 was moved to 
indite an elaborate epistle, still preserved, in which he 

1 Dr. Doddridge. 



MEMOIR. xv 

labored to convince her that it was actually possible for 
a grave divine of thirty years to experience the passion of 
love for a little gentlewoman of fifteen. The converse of 
the problem he seems to have taken for granted ; not so 
the young lady, who steadfastly refused to become the 
Eloise of such an Abelard." 

Dr. Aikin was more successful in his suit, and mar- 
ried the charming young Miss Jennings. 

After a while Dr. Aikin was called to a professorship 
at the little academy of Warrington. While there his 
University of Aberdeen conferred on him the degree 
of D. D. 

Mrs. Aikin was much struck with the early promise 
of Laetitia, and wrote of her : " I once, indeed, knew 
a little girl who was as eager to learn as her instructors 
could be to teach her, and who, at two years old, could 
read sentences and little stories in her wise book 
roundly, without spelling, and in half a year more 
could read as well as most women ; but I never knew 
such another, and I believe, never shall." 

Only one son and daughter were born to Dr. and 
Mrs. Aikin. The son was Dr. John Aikin, who is well 
known for his critical work and essays, and that valu- 
able book for children, " Evenings at Home." Dr. 
Aikin practised medicine at Yarmouth, and later in 
London, where he was long settled, till he moved to 
Stoke Newington, a little village, now lost in London. 

Anna received a fine classical education from her 
father, and under her mother's devoted care grew to 
womanhood. Others observed the remarkable genius 



xvi MEMOIR. 

of the child. One day a student of Dr. Aikin's was 
conversing with him on the passions. Dr. Aikin re- 
marked to Mr. Cappe, that "joy accurately defined 
could not have a place in a state of perfect felicity, since 
it supposed an accession^of happiness." " I think you 
are mistaken, papa," said a little voice from the oppo- 
site side of the table. "Why so, Laetitia?" "Be- 
cause in the chapter I read to you this morning in the 
Testament, it is said, there is more joy in heaven over 
one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine 
just persons that need no repentance." Mr. Cappe in 
recording this incident, says that she was but five years 
old. 

When Miss Aiken was fifteen years old her father 
became classical instructor at the academy lately 
founded by Dissenters in Warrington. This acad- 
emy numbered among its trustees, tutors, and scholars 
names celebrated in literature, art, and the sciences. 
Lord Willoughby of Parham, was for a time President 
of the Board of Trustees, and the trustees were men 
of position and respectability, who gave largely towards 
its first endowment and support. The tutors or pro- 
fessors included Dr. Taylor of Norwich, author of a 
Hebrew Concordance which received the cordial en- 
dorsement of the bishops of the Established Church, 
whose names were among its first subscribers. Dr. 
Enfield, Gilbert Wakefield, and Mr. Holt were among 
the other tutors, and the celebrated Dr. Priestley, 
the " Patriot, and Saint, and Sage " of Coleridge, 
first displayed his great mental endowments and be- 



MEMOIR. xvn 

gan his original investigations in science during his 
residence at Warrington. He wrote of his residence 
there : " The tutors in my time, lived in the most 
perfect harmony. We drank tea together every Satur- 
day, and our conversation was equally instructive and 
pleasing. We were all Arians, and the only subject of 
much consequence on which we differed respected 
the doctrine of the Atonement, concerning which Dr. 
Aikin held some obscure notions." 

The little academy drew to Warrington distinguished 
visitors and pupils from the best dissenting families in 
the kingdom. 

Howard, the philanthropist, was a visitor there, that 
Mrs. Barbauld's brother, John Aikin, might revise his 
MSS. and correct his proofs which were being struck 
off at the Warrington press. Roscoe of Liverpool, the 
botanist, Pennant the naturalist, Currie the biographer 
of Burns, and other names of local repute in that day, 
were among those who visited there more or less fre- 
quently, attracted by the talents and learning of the 
professors. Miss Aikin wrote : " I have often thought 
with envy of that society. Neither Oxford nor Cam- 
bridge could boast of brighter names in literature or 
science than several of these dissenting tutors — humbly 
content, in an obscure town and on a scanty pittance, 
to cultivate in themselves, and communicate to a rising 
generation, those mental acquirements and moral habits 
which are their own exceeding great reward. They 
and theirs lived together like one large family, and 
in the facility of their intercourse they found large 
b 



XVin MEMOIR. 

compensation for its deficiency in luxury and splendor. 
Such days^ are past ; whom have we now ' content 
with science in a humble shed?'" 

Kibworth was a very small village, and probably Mrs. 
Barbauld had a very monotonous life there ; though 
she was able to recall the excitement and anxiety felt 
in the family when the news of the advance of the 
Pretender's army on London reached Kibworth in 
1 745. The town was on the high-road to London, and 
the three-year child could vividly recall the commotion 
caused by the approach of the rebels, and the relief 
felt when the news came of their defeat at Derby. 

Always brilliant in beauty, Anna had admirers in 
Kibworth, and one of these suitors was desperately in 
love with the young girl. She was full of life and un- 
tamed spirits, though her mother was even rigorous in 
exacting all the details of a household training from 
her, and made her a proficient in the usual feminine ac- 
complishments. Her severe classical training, thorough 
course of reading, and intense love of books and na- 
ture, did not prevent her from a very lively enjoyment 
of the pleasures of youth. " Great bodily activity, and 
a lively spirit struggled hard against the tight rein " 
which her mother held over her. In later years she 
told her niece that she had never been placed in a 
situation thoroughly congenial to her. This undoubt- 
edly was true, if we except the fifteen years at Warring- 
ton, which were certainly full of promise and brilliant 
with intellectual and social attractions. It was a limited 
circle, it is true, but exceptionally endowed with social 



MEMOIR. xix 

and mental attractions for one of Miss Aikin's powers. 
In after life she undoubtedly realized more fully that 
she had not had the full advantages of a worldly 
career ; but the very attitude of dissent precluded all 
hopes of an introduction among the first literary circles 
in London, until .she had won recognition by her talents 
and gentle womanly charms. Her life was then settled 
beyond a hope of material alteration, and her position 
as the wife of a dissenting clergyman was too clearly 
defined to afford her the opportunities she must have 
much desired. Dissent was respectable but very un- 
fashionable in England, and all the legal privileges 
granted Dissenters in later years have not entirely 
removed this stigma. Mrs. Aikin was " neat, punctual, 
strict ; " and though of cultivated mind and polished 
manners, it is said by those who knew best, that Anna 
and her mother were not in any respect congenial. 

Mrs. Barbauld was described at this time by an 
observer as follows : — 

" She was possessed of great beauty, distinct traces 
of which she retained to the latest period of her life. 
Her person was slender, her complexion exquisitely fair 
with the bloom of perfect health ; her features regular 
and elegant, and her dark blue eyes beamed with the light 
of wit and fancy." 

" London cousins wondered sometimes at the gymnas- 
tic feats of the country lass. It was these perhaps, added 
to the brightness of her lilies and roses which sunk so 
deep into the heart of Mr. Haynes, a rich farmer of Kib- 
worth. He followed this damsel of fifteen to Warrington 
and obtained a private audience of her father, and begged 



XX MEMOIR. 

his consent to make her his wife. My grandfather an- 
swered that his daughter was then walking in the garden, 
and he might go and ask her himself. With what grace 
the farmer pleaded his cause I know not ; but at length, 
out of all patience at his unwelcome importunities, she 
ran nimbly up a tree which grew by the garden wall, and 
let herself down into the lane beyond, leaving her suitor 
' ftlante 'Id.? The poor man went home disconsolate; he 
lived and died a bachelor; though he was never known to 
purchase any other book whatever, 'the works of Mrs. 
Barbauld,' splendidly bound, adorned his parlor to the 
end of his days." 

At Warrington, stimulated by the affectionate ad- 
miration she received from the society which surround- 
ed her, Miss Aikin began to write ; and the interest 
which Dr. Priestley and his wife, with other friends, 
showed in her work, encouraged her to continue labors 
first assumed to amuse and enliven social gatherings. 
Both "bout rimes " and "vers de societe " were in fashion 
in the set which gathered there. Anonymous poems 
were often read, and excited much comment and ad- 
miration. The authorship of these poems was often 
very puzzling to the hearers, and many were the 
guesses made. Once a' very brilliant copy of verses 
was slipped into Mrs. Priestley's work-bag, a favorite 
place with these players at hide and seek. After long 
consideration it was finally traced to Dr. Priestley 
himself. 

Simple pleasures, and an elevated social and literary 
taste characterized the life at Warrington. The inspira- 
tion of such minds as Priestley gave the opening years 



MEMOIR. xxi 

of this academy much activity ; and the educational 
advantages of the place were combined with such 
moderate expenses of living that many scholars were 
drawn there from the remote parts of Great Britain 
and her dependencies. 

After a time, as the students were lodged in buildings 
arranged for them, and no longer under the personal 
care of the tutors, at whose houses they had previously 
lived, they had more freedom, and the West Indian 
scholars became very troublesome. They shocked the 
tutors by their violence and lawlessness. They were 
wont to bewail their native islands, and say that the 
earliest request of the planter's children was for "a 
young nigger to kick." This set of unruly spirits 
finally ruined the academy by their insubordination, 
and it was merged in another institution. 

In the palmy days of Warrington Academy, Miss 
Aikin was the centre of all that was brightest in the 
little town. In 1773, John Aikin, who had recently 
returned from his medical studies, persuaded his sister 
to allow him to print and publish her poems. She had 
been writing more or less for some years. Dr. Priestley 
says that some of her first poems were written during 
a visit at his house in Leeds. Mrs. Barbauld herself 
stated that her first poems were written after reading 
some verses of Dr. Priestley's, which interested her so 
much that she began to write in verse. 

She began to write early in life, and on various occa- 
sions showed her facility in the range of thought and 
style, which varied happily from " grave to gay, from 



xxu MEMOIR. 

lively to severe." Riddles, jeux d'esprit, letters in 
verse, alternated with the noble "Address to the Deity," 
inspired by a sermon of Dr. Priestley's, and the " In- 
vitation to Miss Belsham," containing the fine lines 
often quoted, — 

" Man is the nobler growth our realms supply, 
And souls are ripened in our northern sky." 

There is a very affectionate address to Dr. Aikin, 
when he left the family to pursue his studies at Aber- 
deen ; and verses thrown into Dr. and Mrs. Priestley's 
chaise when they left Warrington show her playful 
fancy. She was blessed with a fine imagination and 
nice sense of the ridiculous, blended with the highest 
capacity for sublime and devotional thought. How 
impressive are the following lines from " A Summer 
Evening's Meditation," which are written by the 
same hand that penned the sportive " Lines from A 
Mouse," "Washing Day" and the "Inventory of the 
Furniture in Dr. Priestley's Library," — 

" How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise ! 
But are they silent all? — or is there not 
A tongue in every star, that talks with man, 
And woos him to be wise ? Nor woos in vain : 
This dead of midnight is the noon of thought, 
And Wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars." 

Dr. Aikin's publication of his sister's poems was 
attended with results which justified his opinion of 
their merits. The public and the critics received 
them well, and four editions were called for during the 



MEMOIR. XXlll 

year 1773. Encouraged by success of the poems Dr. 
Aikin urged his sister to print some essays in prose, 
and added some of his own pieces to the collection. 
Lucy Aikin, his daughter, does not repeat the good 
story about the reception of his essays. 

She very bitterly says that, as the authors did not put 
their names to each essay, some were credited wrongly ; 
"and the fragment of 'Sir Bertrand,' in particular, 
though alien from the character of that brilliant and 
airy imagination which was never conversant with terror, 
and rarely with pity, has been repeatedly ascribed to 
Mrs. Barbauld, even in print." 

The truth was quite evident at the time, that Dr. 
Aikin's portion of the book he would have been wise 
to confine to editing. At a London dinner table where 
Samuel Rogers was, C. J. Fox met Aikin. " I am 
greatly pleased with your Miscellaneous Pieces, Mr. 
Aikin," said Fox (alluding to this collection of Essays). 
Aikin bowed. " I particularly admire," continued Fox, 
"your essay Against Inconsistency in Our Expecta- 
tions." "That," says Aikin, "is my sister's." "I like 
much," returned Fox, "your essay On Monastic Insti- 
tutions" "That," answered Aikin, "is also my sister's." 
Rogers adds, " Fox thought it best to say no more 
about the book." Miss Aikin never alluded to this 
little incident. 

The essay " On Romances " was an imitation of Dr. 
Johnson's style. Boswell, in talking with Dr. Johnson, 
spoke of Hugh Blair's comments on his style, which 
he had deprecated as too pompous, and he had at- 



MEMOIR. 

-.-:;.-.: i :: irrA:i:e i: ' y z v r. _ : : r:t~:e :: A'.':-::. 
::. _ T :'-_-s:-"= re:.A:r -inner. Z:5~rll renei:ei : .-.:- 
rissiee i~ i :iie ::.::::: .v.; ie ;v A.: ;. r/.-.tn T :Ans:r. 
re - • ire r.:: Aie "iris I shiili hive 

:n::i::r5 :f my -y 
•sA . - i:ne i: :he Acs: ::r she h\: 
:n." 
rirrnr.iei y: sniili v.: ii^er.iii ArA.e ::' frier. :h. 
not without admirers who desired to 
take the first place in h ns. She had many 

-.:::> :;r Aer Air. A ir. i : ~ ._ "A.:.-. A.: A: lii A:. .• 
ikon Rowan, the notoric is ; classed by 

himself. While being rusticated at t 

.duct, he was sent to Warrington, and A 
v:;:- Ae Arr. leh.irei. ir. reiiAAve: A:? =■:;: :. Aiere. 

This remarkable man, in whose defence Curran 

-~.iiz his funis e A : r ::. ::* :he Erirish A:/" — A Le 
Aich proclaims even to the stranger arid sojourner, 
the moment he foot on British earth, that the 

gr:rni At rreiis is h:iy. ir. i :::-::::::: :y :he 
genius of universal emancipation," — was only one of 
itverii irien: ilrnirers :: Mi:S AA-nn. 

"arrington students there was a yox 
rr.ir. :: Frr'A: ies:en:. Rii.en::.: Birzinii. 

rrandson of a French Huguenot. During 1 
persecution of the Protestants by Louis XIV 
_r.v. iAAAirr. " A.en :. ': :y. - ; 5 nrr.e :i :~ ; :ir:i 1 shy . 
enclosed in a cask, and conveyed to England." He 



MEMOIR. xxv 

settled in that country, married there, and had a son 
who took orders in the Established Church. On the 
marriage of one of the daughters of George II. to the 
Elector of Hesse, he received an appointment as chap- 
lain in her household ; and at Cassel his son Roche - 
mont was born and passed his early years. When the 
household of the Electress was broken up, he accom- 
panied his father to Paris, remaining there a year. 
After his return to England his father sent him to 
Warrington. It was Mr. Barbauld's intention that his 
son should enter the English establishment, but his life 
at Warrington and his intimacy with Miss Aikin so 
altered his views that he began to fit himself for the 
Presbyterian ministry. For some time want of occupa- 
tion prevented his marriage, but finally, in May, 1774, 
he married Miss Aikin. 

Anna, or " Nancy," Aikin, as her family and the 
friends of her youth called her, had one among other 
lifelong friends, "Betsey" Belsham, afterwards Mrs. 
Kenrick. To this lady she. poured out all the joys 
and sorrows of her lot. These letters began in 1 768. 
Sometimes, in the gayety of youth, it was lively chatter 
about a " beau," as girls then designated their ad- 
mirers. Of one, " I talked to him, smiled upon him, 
gave him my fan to play with. Nothing would do ; he 
was grave as a philosopher. I tried to raise a conver- 
sation : ' 'Twas fine weather for dancing.' He agreed 
to my observation. 'We had a tolerable set this time.' 
Neither did he contradict that. Then we were both 
silent. Stupid mortal ! thought I. But, unreasonable 



xxvi MEMOIR. 

ii ':_t :::er:::: \:.t : '. :~:t- : i: I ~iit r.ir;:. -.here 
:ne object in the room, a sparkling object, which 

5rr~ef. :: ::r::: :.'.'. r.ii iner.r!:z. :z ~>.;:'.: \t = ttr;:ri 

off die whole time. The object I mean was his 
5Ji: r-:u:kle." 

— _ :: . : :\: :ve:.r. ! :. : " ; :: :".:- r". :-e : 

•_:-...-:::.:- :r:5ye::i :: Mr. Eiririli. 

: : - 
for the uncertainty and suspense in which lor a long time 

;_:.r r tz. i v : 1 vt i . i- i --.. ~ ~ '. ; : h li : t r :: n -t e i. : : r 

;: _ r-rt. 7 :ty . ;-; ~ r : _: ::' ::y '.::t I: 5 j-.irily 

a month that I have certainly known I should fix on 

! 

finally, Irrevocably married. Pity me, dear Betsy ; for on 

:i';t ;-::t v :" :s :: rr_L-:r=: :~ri: ir. tn In — y lit 
I feel depressed, and my courage almost fails me. Yet 
■zz-zz. :!-= - ■'.-. :".t. " hi- t -.'..t rrti:r«: rtiiii :: :i:i*-: '. 5 '"ill 
;r :.i_;y. I s il ; issess :ht =r.::re ift:rl:z : :' i " :::hy 
rr.i.-. •• .. in ~y :i:.-t: n i - :.-;: r. : '< e - -..:•.-".;■ ir. i -:::• 
loprove. The people where we are going, though 
;:ri-itr5. r.irt zt. it- :"- :>.e rrri-.es: iri" I'-i irft:- 

! - ~: ;.:v: : :': : - ;. - : : : : -.--_■ .: : t : - '. . 

and living comfortably in that state of middling life to 
-■"-■;•- : .: : :tt- i::-::r.ei ni .. :.. : live " 

her first youth entering on the uncertain venture of 



MEMOIR. xxvii 

matrimony. Then came a word about John Howard, 
the Christian philanthropist, the friend of her father, 
and always her hero. 

" It was too late, as you say, or I believe I should have 
been in love with Mr. Howard. Seriously, I looked upon 
him with that sort of reverence and love which one should 
have for a guardian angel. God bless him, and preserve 
his health for the health's sake of thousands. And now, 
farewell," she writes in conclusion; " I shall write to you 
no more under this name ; but under any name, in every 
situation, at any distance of time or place, I shall love 
you equally, and be always affectionately yours, tho' not 
always, A. Aikix." 

Dr. John Kenrick of York, a very dear friend, in 
speaking of Mrs. Barbauld's regard for her future 
husband, said he was slow to believe that her attach- 
ment to him was not of the truest and tenderest kind. 
He added that he knew she described her future 
husband to the friend to whom " he had before re- 
ferred," who warned her that Mr. Barbauld had already 
had an attack of insanity, " as little in stature but all 
over heart /" and Mr. Kenrick, from his intimate and 
long acquaintance with her, judged that " the extreme 
sensibility of her own heart would make the manifesta- 
tion of such feeling on his part irresistible." 

Miss Lucy Aikin, who was of a remarkably bitter 
disposition, joined to a considerable literary skill and 
power, has left so sharp a picture of Mr. Barbauld that 
it is fair to qualify it somewhat after quoting it. Miss 
Aikin did not like to print this in the lifetime of the 



xxvui MEMOIR. 

relations of Mr. Barbauld ; Mrs. Le Breton the great- 
niece of Mrs. Barbauld, has recently published it. 
Miss Lucy Aikin says : — 

" Her attachment to Mr. Barbauld was the illusion 
of a romantic fancy — not of a tender heart. Had her 
true affections been early called forth by a more genial 
home atmosphere, she would never have allowed herself 
to be caught by crazy demonstrations of amorous rapture, 
set off with theatrical French manners, or have conceived 
of such exaggerated passion as a safe foundation on 
which to raise the sober structure of domestic happiness. 
My father ascribed that ill-starred union in great part to 
the baleful influence of the ' Nouvelle Heloise,' Mr. B. 
impersonating St. Preux. She was informed by a true 
friend that he had experienced one attack of insanity, and 
was urged to break off the engagement on that account. 
' Then,' answered she, ' if I were now to disappoint 
him, he would certainly go mad.' To this there could be 
no reply ; and with a kind of desperate generosity, she 
rushed upon her melancholy destiny. It should however 
in justice be said, that a more upright, benevolent, gener- 
ous, or independent spirit than Mr. Barbauld's did not 
exist, as far as his malady would permit ; his moral char- 
acter did honor to her choice, but he was liable to fits of 
insane fury, frightful in a schoolmaster. Her sufferings 
with such a husband, who shall estimate ? Children this 
pair seemed immediately to have despaired of. My 
brother Charles, born only one year after their marriage, 
was bespoken by them almost directly. They took him 
home with them before he was two years old. She en- 
joyed in his dutiful affection, in the charms of his de- 
lightful disposition, his talents and his accomplished mind, 



MEMOIR. xxix 

her pride, her pleasure, the best solace of her lonely age. 
Mrs. Barbauld's indolence was a standing subject of re- 
gret and reproach with the admirers of her genius. But 
those who blamed her, little knew the daily and hourly 
miseries of her home ; they could not compute the 
amount of hindrances proceeding from her husband's 
crazy habits, and the dreadful apprehensions with which 
they could not fail to inspire her. 

"At length the blow fell, — Mr. B.'s insanity became 
manifest, undeniable ; and it took the unfortunate form of 
a quarrel with his wife. Well for her that she had the 
protection of an opposite neighbor in her brother ! We 
were all of us constantly on the watch as long as she 
persisted in occupying the same house with the lunatic. 
Her life was in perpetual clanger. Then shone forth the 
nobleness of her spirit. She had a larger share than any 
woman I ever knew of the great quality of courage, — 
courage both physical and moral. She was willing to ex- 
pose herself to really frightful danger from the madman's 
rage, rather than allow him to be irritated by necessary re- 
straint. When all was over, and this miserable chapter of 
her history finally closed, her genius reasserted its claims. 
Her best poems, her noble, though not appreciated, "1811," 
all those evincing a tenderness she had never before been 
known to possess, bear date from her widowhood." 

Miss Lucy Aikin was certainly too severe in her 
statements when she wrote these words. Mrs. Bar- 
bauld's own words and the devotion of her lifetime are 
a strong refutation of parts of this description of Mr. 
Barbauld. To the last she tenderly loved Mr. Bar- 
bauld, and trying as his eccentricities were, she must 
have deeply loved her husband and respected his 



xxx MEMOIR. 

character. In the " Dirge " written November, 1808, 
she makes touching allusion to his sufferings and rest : — 

" Pure Spirit ! Oh, where art thou now ! 
Oh, whisper to my soul ! 
Oh, let some soothing thought of thee, 
This bitter grief control ! 

"'Tis not for thee the tears I shed, 
Thy sufferings now are o'er ; 
The sea is calm, the tempest past, 
On that eternal shore. 

" Farewell ! With honor, peace, and love, 

Be thy dear memory blest ! 
Thou hast no tears for me to shed, 

When I too am at rest." 

In the sketch written by Mrs. Barbauld after her 
husband's death, for the " Monthly Repository of The- 
ology and General Literature," she expressed herself 
so clearly that it is well to allow her opinion to decide 
us in our estimate of Mr. Barbauld's character. 

" The scenes of life Mr. Barbauld passed through were 
common ones, but his character was not a common one. 
His reasoning powers were acute, and sharpened by exer- 
cise ; for he was early accustomed to discussion, and 
argued with great clearness, — with a degree of warmth, 
indeed, but with the most perfect candor towards his 
opponent. He gave the most liberal latitude to free in- 
quiry, and could bear to hear those truths attacked which 
he most steadfastly believed ; the more because he stead- 
fastly believed them ; for he was delighted to submit to 



MEMOIR. xxxi 

the test of argument those truths, which he had no doubt 
could, by argument, be defended. He had an uncommon 
flow of conversation on those points which had engaged 
his attention, and delivered himself with a warmth and 
animation which enlivened the driest subject. He was 
equally at home in French and English literature ; and 
the exquisite sensibility of his mind, with the early culture 
his taste had received, rendered him an excellent judge of 
all those works which appeal to the heart and the imagi- 
nation. His feelings were equally quick and vivid; his 
expressive countenance was the index of his mind, and of 
every instantaneous impression made upon it. Children, 
who are the best physiognomists, were always attracted 
to him, and he delighted to entertain them with lively nar- 
ratives suited to their age, in which he had great invention*. 
The virtues of his heart will be acknowledged by all who 
knew him. His benevolence was enlarged: it was the 
spontaneous propensity of his nature, as well as the result 
of his religious system. He was temperate, almost to 
abstemiousness ; yet without any tincture of ascetic rigor. 
A free, undaunted spirit, a winning simplicity, a tendency 
to enthusiasm, but of the gentle and liberal kind, formed 
the prominent lineaments of his character. The social af- 
fections were all alive and active in him. His heart over- 
flowed with kindness to all, — the lowest that came within 
his sphere. There never was a human being who had less 
of the selfish and worldly feelings ; they hardly seemed 
to form a part of his nature. His was truly the charity 
which thinketh no ill. Great singleness of heart, and a 
candor very opposite to the suspicious temper of worldly 
sagacity, made him slow to impute unworthy motives to 
the actions of his fellow-men; yet his candor by no 
means sprung from indifference to moral rectitude, for 



xxxii MEMOIR. 

when he could no longer resist conviction, his censure 
was decided and his indignation warm and warmly ex- 
pressed. His standard of virtue was high, and he felt no 
propensities which disposed him to lower it. His re- 
ligious sentiments were of the most pure and liberal cast ; 
and his pulpit services, when the state of his spirits sec- 
onded the ardor of his mind, were characterized by the 
rare union of a fervent spirit of devotion with a pure, 
sublime philosophy, supported by arguments of meta- 
physical acuteness. He did not speak the language of 
any party, nor exactly coincide with the systems of any. 
He was a believer in the pre-existence of Christ, and, in 
a certain modified sense, in the atonement ; thinking those 
doctrines most consonant to the tenor of scripture ; . . . 
but he was too sensible of the difficulties which press 
upon every system not to feel indulgence for all, and he 
was not zealous for any doctrine which did not affect the 
heart. Of the moral perfections of the Deity he had the 
purest and most exalted ideas ; on these was chiefly 
founded his system of religion, and these, together with 
his own benevolent nature, led him to embrace so warmly 
his favorite doctrine of the final salvation of all the 
human race, and indeed, the gradual rise and perfectibility 
of all created existence. . . . His latter days were op- 
pressed by a morbid affection of his spirits, in a great 
degree hereditary, which came gradually upon him, and 
closed the scene of his earthly usefulness ; yet in the 
midst of the irritation it occasioned, the kindness of his 
nature broke forth, and some of his last acts were acts of 
benevolence." 

In the jeu d' esprit of Mrs. Barbauld, called the 
" Map of Matrimony," which she addressed to Mr. 
Barbauld some years after their marriage, she concluded 



MEMOIR. xxxi u 

with the following lines, after speaking of the fickleness 
of man, and his love of change : — 

" So shalt not thou, for no returning prow 
E'er cut the ocean which thy bark has past ; 
Too strong relentless Fate has fixed her bars, 
And I my destined captive hold too fast." 

While Mr. and Mrs. Barbauld were undecided as to 
their plans for the future, and considering how they 
might increase Mr. Barbauld's small income as a 
preacher, a proposal was made by Mrs. Montague, and 
some other friends of Mrs. Barbauld, to her of the 
plan of a college or academy for young ladies. No 
better idea can be gained of Mrs. Barbauld's views 
on the higher education of women, and the changes 
which have occurred in the last hundred years, in this 
respect, than by reading her reply to these ladies. She 
gave them her views on the subject in a letter which 
contains so much good sense and sound reasoning that 
her statement is worthy of note as the opinion of one 
who was an ornament to her age and sex. With some 
modifications, which a century with its inevitable 
changes brings, the reasoning is as sound to-day as it 
was then, and it is worthy of attention as the view of a 
cultivated woman, and also something of a picture of 
her own early training. She says : — 

"A kind of Literary Academy for ladies (for that is 

what you seem to propose), where they are to be taught 

in a regular, systematic manner the various branches of 

science, appears to me better calculated to form such 

c 



xxxiv MEMOIR. 

characters as the i Precieuses' 1 or the '■Femmes sqavantes ' 
of Moliere, than good wives or agreeable companions. . . . 
The best way for women to acquire knowledge, is from 
conversation with a father, a brother, or friend, in the way 
of family intercourse and easy conversation, and by such 
a course of reading as they may recommend. . . . Per- 
haps you may think, that having myself stepped out of the 
bounds of female reserve in becoming an author, it is with 
an ill grace I offer these sentiments : but though this cir- 
cumstance may destroy the grace, it does not the justice 
of the remark ; and I am full well convinced that to have a 
too great fondness for books is little favorable to the hap- 
piness of a woman, especially one not in affluent circum- 
stances. My situation has been peculiar, and would be 
no rule for others. 

" I should likewise object to the age proposed. Their 
knowledge ought to be acquired at an earlier period ; 
geography, those languages it may be proper for them to 
learn, grammar, etc., are best learned from about nine to 
thirteen or fourteen, an4 will then interfere less with other 
duties. I should have little hopes of cultivating a love of 
knowledge in a young lady of fifteen, who came to me 
ignorant and untaught. ... It is too late then to begin 
to learn. The empire of the passions is coming on ; a 
new world opens to the youthful eye ; those attachments 
begin to be formed which influence the happiness of future 
life ; — the care of a mother, and that alone, can give suit- 
able attention to this important period. At this period 
they have many things to learn which books and systems 
never taught, — the grace and ease of polished society, 
with the established modes of behavior to every different 
class of people ; the detail of domestic economy, to which 
they must be gradually introduced; the duties, the pro- 



MEMOIR. xxxv 

prieties of behavior which they must practise in their own 
family, in the families where they visit, to their friends, 
to their acquaintance ; lastly, their behavior to the other 
half of their species, with whom before they were hardly 
acquainted, and who then begin to court their notice. . . . 
These are the accomplishments which a young woman has 
to learn from fourteen or fifteen till she is married, or fit to 
be so ; and surely these are not to be learned in a school. 
They must be learned partly at home, and partly by visits. 
. . . For all these reasons, it is my full opinion that the 
best public education cannot at that period be equally ser- 
viceable with — I had almost said — an indifferent private 
one. 

" My next reason is, that I am not at all qualified for 
the task. I have seen a good deal of the manner of edu- 
cating boys, and known pretty well what is expected in 
the care of them ; but in a girl's boarding-school I should 
be quite a novice : I never was at one myself, have not 
even the advantage of younger sisters, which might have 
given me some notion of the management of girls ; indeed, 
for the early part of my life I conversed little with my 
own sex. In the village where I was, there were none to 
converse with ; and this, I am very sensible, has given me 
an awkwardness in many common things, which would 
make me most peculiarly unfit for the education of my 
own sex. But suppose I were tolerably qualified to in- 
struct those of my own rank ; — consider, that these must 
be of a class far superior to those I have lived amongst 
and conversed with. Young ladies of that rank ought to 
have their education superintended by a woman perfectly 
well-bred, from whose manner they may catch that ease 
and gracefulness which can only be learned from the best 
company ; and she should be able to direct them, and 



. vs ;;:::. 



I ::u".i -:: yiizt ::' : 
ztz-iz iri :: ::r:e:: 
smile at my own : for 

fitient in gracefoines! 

I i~ =eis:":".e ±r ::: 
r'.ir.. ir.l "relieve 1 : 
n:: exer_:e i: 



5i:ll :.:":e: 
band receivec 

I .5:. :.:: ?;.'. 
ru'r.zTt l:llv ?;. 
c: :r.t iiy. 1: 
llll! ir;-zr.i 

L ~t 13.11 '.':.:} 

ir.z :l.e 1 : :r 

itf-tf. :: =t- 

1 le: he: set : 
i=::tr= ::l ll ? 

Tilv. :r. :l-.t 



sited die various places of interest in 
zzZTZZ-z'-is. z'z.ty Eerie 1 :.: Pilrri. t. 
le on Horace Walpole, who, in writ- 

dn has 
zzzizzz -'--: le ; :s: ill:—, el : she 
Casfle of Otranto (Strawberry Hffl) ; 
£ antiquities of it," Among me first 

"t 15 I LLc . :LL.L.LL ' i.Lr L-LL-L. II 

.: Lrr. :'l1:l>. :11 il:r.e 111 ill; rreiL 
old being studying a sermon, do I 



The school for boys, which Mr. Barbauld opened at 

ilrrr . 

first lord Denman, Sir William GeD, Dr. Savers and 

V.'illiirr. Tayl:: ::' N:rv^i:h. 1::1. L:rl 1 ;■::. he I;_h 
of Selkirk, and two of his brothers, sons of Lord Tem- 
pledown, and Lord More. Lord Aghrim, and others 



MEMOIR. xxxvn 

were among the roll at Palgrave, — names distinguished 
in the professions, and among the best in Great Britain. 
William Taylor of Norwich, afterwards celebrated as 
one of England's first German scholars, always called 
Mrs. Barbauld " the mother of his mind." He recalled 
with gratitude her instruction, and the way in which 
she encouraged his talent for poetry. He wrote long 
afterwards of the school : — 

" On Wednesdays and Saturdays the boys were called 
in separate classes to her apartment : she read a fable, a 
short story, or a moral essay, to them aloud, and then 
sent them back into the school-room to write it out on the 
slates in their own words. Each exercise was separately 
overlooked by her ; the faults of grammar were obliterated, 
the vulgarisms were chastised, the idle epithets were can- 
celled, and a distinct reason was always assigned for every 
correction ; so that the arts of enditing and of criticising 
were in some degree learnt together. Many a lad from 
the great schools, who excels in Latin and Greek, cannot 
write properly a vernacular letter, for want of some such 
discipline." 

Sir William Gell, afterwards the explorer of Pompeii, 
was among the youngest scholars in her infant-class, for 
whom she wrote the beautiful " Hymns in Prose." 
Lord Denman, who was Chief Justice of England, 
meeting Lucy Aikin years after, went up to her at a 
great public entertainment, and said, with a look of 
delight, " I dreamed of Mrs. Barbauld last night." With 
all his legal learning Lord Denman cherished a love for 
literature and poetry, and he always ascribed to his 
beloved teacher his taste for belles lettres. 



xxxvni MEMOIR. 

The " Prose Hymns " of Mrs. Barbauld are really 
remarkable for the spirit of pure devotion, simple 
beauty, and absolute perfection of form and idea. 
Called prose by their gifted author, they abound in the 
most harmonious periods, and pure, elevating ideas of 
true poetry ; written for the very young, they cannot 
fail to affect the intelligent, cultivated, and developed 
mind by their pure simplicity of style, their elevation of 
thought, and devotional spirit which they display. 

The " Early Lessons " were written for the use of 
little Charles Aikin, son of Mrs. Barbauld's brother, 
John Aikin, M.D., author of most of the charming tales 
in " Evenings at Home," " Essays on Song Writing," 
and many other valuable works and compilations, in- 
cluding his " Biographical Dictionary." Fifty large pub- 
lications are numbered among Dr. Aikin's literary 
works. 

Mrs. Barbauld took little Charles at his birth, and 
never having any children of her own, both Mr. and 
Mrs. Barbauld gave him most devoted care. For him 
she wrote " Early Lessons," with the desire to facilitate 
his first reading, and make less painful those difficult 
steps on the ladder of learning which all beginners must 
take. 

Her practical experience in teaching very little chil- 
dren led her to say of this little book and her purpose 
in preparing it : — 

" It was found that amidst the multitude of books pro- 
fessedly written for children, there is not one adapted to 
the comprehension of a child from two to three years old. 



MEMOIR. xxxix 

A grave remark or a connected story, however simple, is 
above his capacity, and nonsense is always below it, for 
folly is worse than ignorance. Another defect is the want 
of good paper, a clear and large type, and large spaces. 
Those only who have actually taught young children can 
be sensible how necessary these assistances are. The 
eye of a child cannot catch a small obscure ill-formed 
word amidst a number of others, all equally unknown. To 
supply these deficiencies is the object of this book. The 
task is humble, but not mean ; for to lay the first stone of 
a noble building and to plant the first idea in a human 
mind can be no dishonor to any hand." 

Of the "Hymns in Prose for Children," perhaps the 
best known of all her writings, she says in her preface 
her " peculiar object was to impress devotional feelings 
as early as possible on the infant mind, — to impress 
them, by connecting religion with a variety of sensible 
objects, with all that he sees, all he hears, all that 
affects his young mind with wonder and delight ; and 
thus, by deep, strong, and permanent associations, to 
lay the best foundation for practical devotion in future 
life." 

Mrs. Barbauld kept all the school and family accounts 
during these very busy years at Palgrave, lectured to 
the boys, wrote "Hymns in Prose" and "Early Les- 
sons," " Devotional Pieces," with "Thoughts on Devo- 
tional Taste," and in answer to her brother, who was 
continually urging her to greater literary efforts, she 
replied, — " Now to prove to you I am not lazy, I will 
tell you what I have been about. First, then, making 
up beds ; secondly, scolding my maids, preparing for 



xl MEMOIR. 

company; and lastly, drawing up and delivering lec- 
tures on geography. Give me joy of our success, for 
we shall have twenty-seven scholars before the vacation, 
and two more have bespoke places at midsummer ; so 
that we do not doubt of being soon full." 

Dr. Johnson was very severe on Mrs. Barbauld's little 
books, and was once heard to say, " Miss Aikin was 
an instance of early cultivation, but in what did it ter- 
minate ? In marrying a little Presbyterian parson, who 
keeps an infant boarding-school ; so that all her employ- 
ment now is ' to suckle fools, and chronicle small beer.' 
She tells the children, ' This is a cat, and this is a dog, 
with four legs and a tail. See there ! You are much 
better than a cat or a dog, for you can speak.' If I 
had bestowed such an education on a daughter, and 
had discovered that she thought of marrying such a 
fellow, I would have sent her to the Congress." In 
another mood the famous grumbler said better things 
of her, for Mrs. Piozzi says, " Mrs. Barbauld, however, 
had his best praise, and deserved it. No man was ever 
more struck than Mr. Johnson with voluntary descent 
from possible splendor to painful duty." 

During the eleven years passed at Palgrave, Mr. and 
Mrs. Barbauld were often in London, and at the hospi- 
table house of her publisher, Joseph Johnson of St. 
Paul's Churchyard, she saw many celebrated literary 
people. The more fashionable circles of the West End 
were not unknown to her, and at the house of Mrs. 
Montague she met many distinguished men and women. 
Hannah More, in her poem on "Sensibility," alludes to 



MEMOIR. xli 

the famous literary and social queens of the day. In 
her Bos Bleu she had already celebrated Mrs. Eliza- 
beth Montague, Mrs. Boscawen, and Mrs. Vesey, as 
leaders of society. 

In Miss More's eulogy of woman's friendship, which 
contains beautiful tributes to the distinguished women 
of her day, including Mrs. Boscawen, Vesey, Delany, 
Montague, Chapone, and others, she addressed the fol- 
lowing fine lines to Mrs. Barbauld, whose friendship she 
valued much, though their opinions differed on many 
subjects : — 

" Nor, Barbauld, shall my glowing heart refuse 
Its tribute to thy virtues or thy Muse ; 
This humble merit shall at least be mine, 
The poet's chaplet for thy brow to twine ; 
My verse thy talents to the world shall teach, 
And praise the genius it despairs to reach. 
Yet what is wit, and what the poet's art ? 
Can genius shield the vulnerable heart ? 
Ah, no ! where bright imagination reigns, 
The fine-wrought spirit feels acuter pains ; 
Where glow exalted sense and taste refined, 
There, keener anguish rankles in the mind ; 
There, feeling is diffused through every part, 
Thrills in each nerve, and lives in all the heart ; 
And those whose generous souls each tear would keep 
From others' eyes, are born themselves to weep. 
Can all the boasted powers of wit and song, 
Of life one pang remove, one hour prolong ? 
Fallacious hope ! which daily truths deride ; 
For you, alas ! have wept, and Garrick died ! " 



xlii MEMOIR. 

During the holidays the Barbaulds made excursions to 
Warrington, Norwich, and London, pleasantly relieving 
the tedium of teaching by such jaunts. 

Soon after their marriage, in a visit to Warrington, 
the lively lady found that her friend "Dr. Enfield's 
face is grown half a foot longer since I saw him, with 
studying mathematics, and for want of a game of 
romps ; for there are positively none now at Warrington 
but grave matrons. I, who have but half assumed the 
character, was ashamed of the levity of my behavior." 

Mr. James Martineau inherited a friendship and 
respect for Mrs. Barbauld, and told me many little 
anecdotes of her early years, gathered from her own lips 
in after life. Once, perhaps during this very visit, the 
lively school-mistress who so sadly felt the want of a 
"game of romps," — imagine her usher and scholars 
hearing of this confession ! — went to ride with her hus- 
band and Dr. and Mrs. Estlin. They were travelling 
on pillions, as was customary at that time in the coun- 
try roads of England, where travelling could only be 
accomplished on horseback. Dr. Estlin had Mrs. 
Barbauld with him, and the other lady rode with Mr. 
Barbauld. Dr. Estlin's horse made some sudden vio- 
lent bounds, which threw Mrs. Barbauld off. Mr. Bar- 
bauld, on seeing his wife fall, sprang off his own horse 
regardless of his fair companion, and thus threw her off. 
Neither of the four were hurt, but the horse ran off 
before he could be caught, and two of the party were 
obliged to walk ignominiously home. 

In 1784, during one of these London visits, Mrs. 



MEMOIR. xliii 

Barbauld wrote she began " to be giddy with the whirl 
of London, and to feel my spirits flag. There are so 
many drawbacks, from hair-dressers, bad weather, and 
fatigue, that it requires strong health greatly to enjoy 
being abroad." She was beginning to feel the tremen- 
dous strain on mind and body which her years of teach- 
ing, active housekeeping, and thought of Mr. Barbauld 
caused her. In this last London visit she felt the 
, fatigue more fully than before, and in 1 785 an entire 
change of scene was decided to be necessary for both 
Mr. and Mrs. Barbauld. They gave up the school, and 
Mr. Barbauld resigned his church ; which allowed them 
perfect freedom, and this they determined to enjoy in 
a continental tour. They left England in September, 
1785, and were absent until the following June ; which 
time they passed very agreeably in France and Switzer- 
land. 

While the Barbaulds were absent, Mrs. Barbauld sent 
home many bright and witty letters to her family and 
friends. They saw much to interest them, and found a 
cordial reception in many places. Geneva, where they 
made something of a stay, attracted them by its social 
charms, and there Mr. Barbauld found relations among 
the Rochemonts, "amiable and respectable people." 
Geneva was a literary centre then and for many years, 
and the names of Necker, Minister of France, father 
of Madame de Stael, Madame Necker {?iee Curchod), 
the early love of Gibbon, De Saussure, De Candolle, 
Sismondi, Bonstetten, M. Dumont, the Pictets, Marc 
Auguste and his brother M. Pictet de Roche mont, 



xliv 



MEMOIR. 



worthily sustained the reputation of Geneva, which had 
long been an educational centre for the Protestant 
youth of Great Britain, France, Germany, and Spam. 
The college founded by Calvin in 1558, with the 
Academie of earlier date which was reorganized by him 
and Beza in 1539, with many other public institutions 
conducted on the most liberal principles, had made 
Geneva, in the course of centuries, a place of enviable 
importance, an abode of science and literature. Visits 
at Aix, Nismes, Carcassone, Marseilles, and many other 
interesting spots in France occupied their time very 
pleasantly. In one letter descriptive of their summer's 
journey, Mrs. Barbauld sent the following little summary 
of her views on travelling : — 



Advantages of Travelling. 

A July sun and a southern 

breeze. 
Figs, almonds, etc., etc. 

Sweet scents in the fields. 
Grapes and raisins. 
Coffee as cheap as milk. 
Wine a demi-sous the bottle. 

Provencal songs and laughter. 

Soup, salad, and oil. 

Arcs of triumph, fine churches, 

stately palaces. 
A pleasant and varied country. 



Per Contra. 

Flies, fleas, and all Pharaoh's 
plague of vermin. 

No tea, and the very name of a 
teakettle unknown. 

Bad scents within doors. 

No plum-pudding. 

Milk as dear as coffee. 

Bread three sous the halfpenny 
roll. 

Provencal roughness and scold- 
ing. 

No beef, no butter. 

Dirty inns, heavy roads, uneasy 
carriages. 

But many, many, a league from 
those we love. 



MEMOIR. xlv 

At Marseilles they bought a comfortable English 
chaise for their return journey, — at that time this was 
the only pleasant way of making long journeys, — and 
posting with their own carriage was much more agree- 
able to them than a diligence. 

In this manner they saw Toulon, crossed the mount- 
ains of the South of France, making excursions aside as 
objects of interest were thought of. Hieres they visited 
on foot, and returned to Toulon in a primitive fashion, 
Mrs. Barbauld probably to her own amazement, on the 
bourrique of a paysanne, as the nine mile road was so 
steep that she was glad of a change and rest. 

Mrs. Barbauld was troubled to see that at Nismes, 
the very centre of Protestantism in France, the congre- 
gation, some thirty thousand people, assembled in what 
they called the desert, a place " in the open air, sur- 
rounded by rocks which reverberate the voice," a few 
stones served as seats for the elders, and with a mova- 
ble pulpit made up the furnishing of this singular place 
of worship. Their .great festivals conducted in this 
place were most striking. " No church, not even a 
barn," was theirs to use, and yet they were supposed 
to be wealthy, and only persecutions of the government 
prevented their building for religious purposes. 

Some little time was passed at Paris, which was just 
then all excitement over the affair of the Diamond 
Necklace. 

After the Barbaulds' return to England they passed 
some months in London, lodging in Caroline street, 
seeing their friends and enjoying very much the attrac- 



xlvi MEMOIR. 

tions of the social atmosphere and literary life. Mrs. 
Barbauld could greatly add to the pleasure of any social 
gathering by her conversational powers. Miss Aikin 
says, from her own recollections of her aunt in the ma- 
turity of her powers, " Her conversation in her happiest 
moods had a charm inexpressible : wit, playful wit, 
tempered with true feminine softness and the gentle 
dignity of a high mind, unwont to pour forth its hidden 
treasures on all demands." Mr. John Kenrick, whose 
wife was a life-long friend of Mrs. Barbauld, wrote 
recently that " her conversational powers were best 
seen when, in a circle of friends of cultivated minds, 
some topic" of literary, historical, or moral interest was 
started, and the ball was thrown freely from hand to 
hand. She could maintain her place against the most 
fluent and subtle of the party." 

Sometimes, perhaps, she offended by this spirit of 
argument ; for Mrs. Opie wrote to Mrs. Barbauld's very 
dear friend, Mrs. John Taylor of Norwich, that she had 
a talk with Mrs. Barbauld, who maintained " that read- 
ing was an indolent way of passing the time," and took 
that view of what she probably thought was reading in 
a desultory manner without an object. Mrs. Opie "was 
extremely surprised, as you may think, and began," she 
adds, " to combat her assertions ; but I recollected 
that I had heard it said that Mrs. Barbauld, like Mr. 
Taylor, often contradicted for the sake of argument, 
and when I feel this, as it is a proceeding which I 
thoroughly disapprove, I am too angry to keep up the 
ball." 






MEMOIR. xlvii 

In 1787 Mr. Barbauld received a call from the 
Hampstead dissenting chapel, and the move there was 
made in the spring of that year. Hampstead was a 
very rural suburb of London, and most inconvenient of 
access from the metropolis, but it was a little centre 
of a delightful society. The Carrs, the sisters Agnes 
and Joanna Baillie, the Hoares, and other delightful 
neighbors were near them ; and at Hackney, near by, 
lived Dr. Priestley and Gilbert Wakefield, both endeared 
to Mrs. Barbauld by many tender associations of her 
happy years at Warrington. 

She described her new home to her brother, who was 
settled in London, in a note which I extract from : — 

"Hampstead is certainly the pleasantest village about 
London. The mall of the place, a kind of terrace, which 
they call Prospect Walk, commands a most extensive 
and varied view over Middlesex and Berkshire, in which 
is included, besides many inferior places, the majestic 
Windsor and lofty Harrow, which last is so conspicuously 
placed that, you know, King James called it ' God's visible 
church upon earth.' Hampstead and Highgate are mutu- 
ally objects to each other, and the road between them is 
delightfully pleasant, lying along Lord Mansfield's fine 
woods, and the Earl of Southampton's/^/-//?.? o?-nee. Lady 
Mansfield and Lady Southampton, I am told, are both 
admirable dairy-women, and so jealous of each other's 
fame in that particular that they have had many heart- 
burnings, and have once or twice been very near a serious 
falling-out, on the dispute which of them could make the 
greatest quantity of butter from such a number of cows. 

"As we have no house, we are not visited except by 
those with whom we have connections ; but few as they 



xlviii MEMOIR. 

are, they have filled our time with a continual round of 
company; we have not been six days alone. This is a 
matter I do not altogether wish, for they make very long 
tea-drinking afternoons, and a whole long afternoon is 
really a piece of life. However, they are very kind and 
civil. I am trying to get a little company in a more im- 
proving way, and have made a party with a young lady to 
read Italian together." 

Church Row was a green avenue of quaint old Dutch- 
built houses, which led to the old church tower, which 
guards the graves of old Hampstead worthies. 

On a visit in Hampstead in 1873, I saw the house 
described by Mrs. Barbauld as " standing in the high- 
road, at the entrance of the village, quite surrounded by 
fields." The house is much dilapidated, and the fields 
quite built over now. After a time they chose a de- 
lightful old house on Rosslyn Hill, and this was their 
home till the move was made to Newington. There 
came parishioners and friends, and they in their turn 
made excursions which varied the year's occupations. 

A stage-coach was the only means of communication 
between the "village revelling in varieties," as Leigh 
Hunt named it in his sonnet, and the hill was so steep 
which had to be surmounted to reach their abode that 
the passengers were always obliged to walk up the hill. 
The state of the roads was such, too, that Mr. Barbauld 
was often kept at home when he wished to go to town. 

At Hampstead Mrs. Barbauld did some literary 
work. The stories for "Evenings at Home," and sev- 
eral prose essays, were written there. The spirited 



MEMOIR. xlix 

poem addressed to the champion of the West Indian 
blacks, William Wilberforce, was also composed there, 
and Mrs. Hannah More thanked Mrs. Barbauld most 
cordially for it in July, 1791, saying that she 'had re- 
peated parts of it to Mr. Wilberforce, who was visiting 
her, "and he did full justice to the striking picture" 
of the barbarity of the West Indian women, in the 
lines : — 

" Lo ! where reclined, pale Beauty courts the breeze 
Diffused on sofas of voluptuous ease ; 
With anxious awe her menial train around 
Catch her faint whispers of half-uttered sound ; 
See her in monstrous fellowship unite 
At once the Scythian and the Sybarite ! 
Blending repugnant vices, misallied, 
Which frugal nature purposed to divide ; 
See her, with indolence to fierceness joined, 
Of body delicate, infirm of mind, 
With languid tones imperious mandates urge ; 
With arm recumbent wield the household scourge ; 
And with unruffled mien, and placid sounds, 
Contriving torture, and inflicting wounds." 

Among the cares of housekeeping, anxious watchful- 
ness of her husband's mental condition, and her inter- 
est in literature, Mrs. Barbauld found time to enjoy 
society. In writing Samuel Rogers, the banker-poet, 
then a young man, whose career was watched by Mrs. 
Barbauld with motherly affection, she says : — 

" We are to have an assembly at the Long Room, on 
Monday next, the 22nd, which they say will be a pretty 

d 



1 MEMOIR. 

good one ; I take the liberty to ask whether it will be 
agTeeable to you to be of our party, and in that case we 
have a bed at your service. I could, I am sure, have my 
petition supported by a round robin of the young ladies of 
Hampstead, which would act like a spell to oblige your 
attendance, but not being willing to make use of such 
compulsory methods I will only say how much pleasure it 
will give to, Sir, 

"Your obliged and obedient servant, 

"A. L. Barbauld. 

" Our dinner hour, if you can give us your company to 
dinner, is half after three. 

"Hampstead, October" (about 1788). 

In 1790 Mrs. Barbauld was roused by the rejection 
of the bill for the repeal of the Corporation and Test 
Acts, and she produced her eloquent and impressive 
address to the opposers of the repeal. By this act, 
passed in the reign of Charles II., no person was eligi- 
ble to any position, either civil or military, under the 
crown, without the acceptance of the Lord's Supper 
according to the forms of the Church of England. 
The act was finally repealed in 1828. 

The high spirit of Mrs. Barbauld, her broad and lib- 
eral views, and earnest advocacy of all measures of pro- 
gress made her some enemies among the ranks of the 
conservative party. She was without a shadow of party 
feeling, and her whole aim was to elevate the cause of 
humanity. 

The spirited " Lines of the Rising of the French Na- 
tion," with the prose essays already named, and " Re- 



MEMOIR. li 

marks on Mr. Wakefield's Inquiry into the Expediency 
and Propriety of Public or Social Worship," a discourse 
for the Fast in 1793, with the " Epistle to William Wil- 
berforce," made her enemies. Horace Walpole called 
her Deborah, and Helen Maria Williams Jael, and in 
writing constantly was abusing her even to her friends. 
To Hannah More he wrote, " Deborah may cant rhymes 
of compassion — she is a hypocrite ; and you shall not 
make her real, nor with all your sympathy and candor 
can you esteem her. Your compassion for the blacks 
is genuine, sincere from your soul, most amiable ; hers, 
a measure of faction." Deep indignation against her 
"Address on the Corporation and Test Acts" made 
him forget himself so far to call her "the virago 
Barbauld," and class her among the lowest pamph- 
leteers, "who spit their rage at eighteen pence a 
head." - 

Meantime the disinterested spirit of Mrs. Barbauld, 
and her real love of freedom and humanity, upheld her 
under the rising storm of scorn and ridicule. Her 
heart always beat true for mankind, for every class 
and nation, in their struggles for freedom and right. 
Her pen and voice were ever ready for the defence of 
what she felt was the true cause. Her gaze was ever 
turned to the brightening future, to which she confi- 
dently looked forward. 

Diffident, modest by nature, and distrusting always 
her own powers, it required great firmness to espouse 
the unpopular side. Her first ambitious effort was 
the generous appeal for Corsica, which she wrote 



Hi MEMOIR. 

when only twenty-six, in the seclusion of her country 
home. 

She realized from the first the true meaning of the 
French Revolution, and braved the displeasure of Burke 
and many other friends to uphold her opinions. 

She encouraged Priestley when mob law drove him 
from his home with brutal violence ; saw the desecra- 
tion which the rigid enforcement of the Test Act caused, 
and the hypocrisy, also, which grew out of it ; spoke a 
brave and timely word in the lines to Wilberforce, then 
at the outset of his work for the slaves ; and even in 
her much-abused poem of " 1811 " showed she had the 
" courage of her convictions," when she re-encountered 
voluntarily such attacks as that made on her by " the 
Wicked Wasp," J. W. Croker. 

In 1793 the memorable visit was made to Scotland, 
when Mrs. Barbauld, while at Dugald Stewart's, drew 
from her pocket-book the spirited verses of Burger's 
"Lenore," and read the "composition to the company, 
who were electrified by the tale. It was the more suc- 
cessful," adds Sir Walter Scott, "that Mr. Taylor had 
boldly copied the imitative harmony of the German, 
and described the spectral journey in language resem- 
bling that of the original." 

" Burger had thus painted the ghastly career : — 

1 Und hurre, hurre, hop, hop, hop ! 
Ging's fort in sausendem Galopp, 
Dass Ross und Reiter schnoben, 
Und Kies und Funken stoben.' 



MEMOIR. liii 

" The words were rendered by the kindred sounds in 
English : — 

' Tramp, tramp, across the land they speed ; 
Splash, splash, across the sea ; 
Hurrah ! the dead can ride apace, 
Dost fear to ride with me ? ' 

" When Miss Aikin had finished her recitation, she 
replaced in her pocket-book the paper from which she 
had read it, and enjoyed the satisfaction of having made 
a strong impression on the hearers, whose bosoms thrilled 
yet the deeper as the ballad was not to be more closely 
introduced to them. The author was not present on this 
occasion, although he had then the distinguished advan- 
tage of being a familiar friend and frequent visitor of Pro- 
fessor Stewart and his family. But he was absent from 
town while Miss Aikin was in Edinburgh, and it was not 
until his return that he found all his friends in rapture 
with the intelligence and good sense of their visitor, but 
in particular with the wonderful translation from the Ger- 
man, by means of which she had delighted and astonished 
them. The enthusiastic description given of Burger's 
ballad and the broken account of the story, of which only 
two lines were recollected, inspired the author, who had 
some acquaintance, as has been said, with the German 
language, and a strong taste for popular poetry, with a 
desire to see the original." 

Miss Cranstoun, afterwards Countess of Purgstall, 
who was present that evening, described the scene to 
Captain Basil Hall many years after. Scott was so 
much interested in his translation that he sat up very 
late finishing it, and carried it next morning to Miss 
Cranstoun who was delighted and wrote to a country 



liv MEMOIR. 

friend, "Upon my word, Walter Scott is going to turn 
out a poet, — something of a cross, I think, between 
Burns and Gray." 

In 1795 tne Essays prefixed by Mrs. Barbauld to 
illustrated editions of Akenside's " Pleasures of the 
Imagination " and Collins's " Odes " were published. 
They show her usual critical taste and nice discrim- 
ination. 

In 1796 Mrs. Barbauld met Paoli, whom she had 
so warmly eulogized in her poem on Corsica thirty 
years before. She said herself, " Had it been thirty 
years ago, it would have made my heart beat stronger." 

Visits at various pleasant country places varied the 
suburban life of Hampstead ; and South Wales, Surrey, 
and the region about Bristol were familiar to them. 

While at Bristol, in 1797, Mrs. Barbauld became 
better acquainted with Hannah More, whom she had 
long known as a correspondent after meeting her in 
London. A day was passed at the little cottage of the 
Mores', Cowslip Green. The Estlins, who were inti- 
mate friends of the Barbaulds, kept a large boarding 
school in Bristol, and with them many pleasant days 
were spent. Delightful walks and drives varied the 
time, and new acquaintances were made among the 
literary and scientific men of the town. Dr. Beddoes 
was then at the height of his fame and practising at the 
"Pneumatic Institution" his various hobbies in gas 
inhalation, and making his patients inhale the breath 
of cattle. 

While at Dorking in Surrey they made one visit to 



MEMOIR. lv 

Madame D'Arblay, Fanny Burney, which that lady 
chronicles as follows : — 

"I was extremely surprised to be told by the maid a 
gentleman and lady had called at the door, who sent in a 
card and begged to know if I could admit them, and to see 
the names on the card were Mr. and Mrs. Barbauld. I 
had never seen them more than twice : the first time, by 
their own desire, Mrs. Chapone carried me to meet them 
at Mr. Burrow's ; the other time, I think, was at Mrs. 
Chapone's. You must be sure I could not hesitate to 
receive with thankfulness this civility from the authoress 
of the most useful books, next to Mrs. Trimmer's, that 
have been yet written for children ; though this with the 
world is probably her very secondary merit, her many 
pretty poems, and particularly songs, being generally 
esteemed. But many more have written those as well, 
and not a few better; for children's books she began the 
new walk which has since been so well cultivated, to the 
great information as well as utility of parents. 

"Mr. Barbauld is a Dissenting minister, — an author 
also, but I am unacquainted with his works. They were 
in our little dining-parlor, — the only room that has any 
chairs in it, — and began apologies for the visit; but I 
interrupted, and finished them with my thanks." (Madame 
D'Arblay had just moved into her new cottage, named by 
her, after her last novel, Camilla Cottage ; and it was in 
much disorder, for her marriage with M. D'Arblay had 
been one of affection, hardly of prudence, and they were 
very much straitened in their income.) " She is much 
altered, but not for the worse to me, though she is for 
herself, since the flight of her youth, which is evident, has 
also taken with it a great portion of an almost set smile, 
which had an air of determined complacence and prepared 



lvi MEMOIR. 

acquiescence that seemed to result from a sweetness 
which never risked being off guard. I remember Mrs. 
Chapone's saying to me, after our interview, 'She is a 
very good young woman, as well as replete with talents ; 
but why must one always smile so ? It makes my poor 
jaws ache to look at her.' We talked, of course, of that 
excellent lady ; and you will believe I did not quote her 
notions of smiling. . . . Her brother, Dr. Aikin, with his 
family, were passing the summer at Dorking on account 
of his ill health, the air of that town having been recom- 
mended for his complaint. The Barbaulds were come to 
spend some time with him, and would not be so near 
without renewing their acquaintance. They had been 
walking in Norbury Park, which they admired very much ; 
and Mrs. Barbauld very elegantly said, ' If there was such 
a public officer as Legislator of Taste, Mr. Lock ought to 
be chosen for it.' They inquired much about M. D'Ar- 
blay, who was working in his garden, and would not be at 
the trouble of dressing to appear. They desired to see 
Alex" (her son), "and I produced him; and his ortho- 
graphical feats were very well timed here, for, as soon as 
Mrs. Barbauld said, 'What is your name, you pretty 
creature ?' he sturdily answered, ' BOY.' 

" Almost all our discourse was upon the Irish rebellion. 
Mr. Barbauld is a very little, diminutive figure, but well- 
bred and sensible. I borrowed her poems afterwards, of Mr. 
Daniel, who chanced to have them, and have read them 
with much esteem of the piety and worth they exhibit, and 
real admiration of the last amongst them, which is an 
epistle to Mr. Wilberforce in favor of the demolition of the 
slave-trade, in which her energy seems to spring from the 
real spirit of virtue, suffering at the luxurious depravity 
which can tolerate in a free land, so unjust, cruel, and 
abominable a traffic. 



MEMOIR. lvii 

" We returned their visit together in a few days, at Dr. 
Aikin's lodgings at Dorking, where, as she permitted M. 
D'Arblay to speak French, they had a very animated dis- 
course upon buildings, French and English, each support- 
ing those of their own country with great spirit, but my 
monsieur, to own the truth, having greatly the advantage, 
both in manner and argument. He was in spirits, and 
came forth with his best exertions. Dr. Aikin looks very- 
sickly, but is said to be better ; he had a good coun- 
tenance." 

In Rogers's "Table-Talk " there is an anecdote re- 
lated by him of Madame D'Arblay in her old age, 
which is not out of place here. He says : " I know 
few lines finer than the concluding stanza of ' Life ' by 
Mrs. Barbauld, who composed it when she was very old. 

1 Life ! we 've been long together, 
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
'T is hard to part when friends are dear ; 
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; 
Then steal away, give little warning, 
Choose thine own time ; 

Say not Good Night, — but in some brighter clime 
Bid me Good Morning.' 

Sitting with Madame D'Arblay some weeks before 
she died, I said to her, ' Do you remember those lines 
of Mrs. Barbauld's " Life " which I once repeated to 
you ? ' ' Remember them ! ' she replied ; ' I repeat 
them to myself every night before I go to sleep.' " 

In a visit of 1799 at Clifton, Mrs. Barbauld, by the 
invitation of Mr. Edgeworth made the acquaintance of 



lviii MEMOIR. 

his interesting family. Maria and she became life- 
long friends. Some criticism courted by Mr. Edge- 
worth, on " Practical Education," the joint work of his 
daughter and himself, was graciously received by him 
and adopted in a later edition, though at the time Mrs. 
Barbauld made it, it was evidently distasteful to him. 
After several pertinent suggestions, " Mrs. Barbauld was 
further well prepared," says Maria, " to urge against 
his plan the tendency to foster aristocratic pride and 
perhaps ingratitude. The one and twenty other good 
reasons she said could be given, my father spared her." 
As she was the first person to make' some unanswerable 
objections to Mr. Edgeworth's peculiar system of edu- 
cation he found it difficult to hear her, but the practical 
views of Mrs. Barbauld had their effect. 

Mrs. Edgeworth gave a little account of their new 
friends in a letter to her family in Ireland : — 

" Mr. Barbauld was an amiable and benevolent man, so 
eager against the slave-trade that when he drank tea with 
us he always brought some East India sugar, that he 
might not share our wickedness in eating that made by 
the negro slave. Mrs. Barbauld, whose ' Evenings at 
Home ' had so much delighted Maria and her father was 
very pretty, and conversed with great ability in admirable 
language." 

One story told me in London of Mr. Barbauld 
while minister at Hampstead gives one a funny impres- 
sion of the little man. He visited an old lady who had 
recently joined his society, accompanied by his wife. 
He was exceedingly restless and fidgety, and moved 



MEMOIR. lix 

about a good deal. Finally the lady turned to Mrs. 
Barbauld and said, " Would not your little boy like to 
go and play in the garden, and then we can have a nice 
long talk ! " 

Among other Hampstead friends were two young 
Scotch women, who came to "Mr. Barbauld's meet- 
ing," and were kindly greeted and welcomed as house- 
hold friends by the pastor and his wife. A volume of 
anonymous tragedies which appeared at the close of 
the last century was much admired by Mrs. Barbauld, 
and one morning she praised the plays " with all her 
heart " to Miss Baillie. Lucy Aikin was struck by the 
coincidence, — Mrs. Barbauld had no knowledge of the 
authorship, — and says, " I well remember the scene. 
She and her sister arrived on a morning call at Mrs. 
Barbauld's. My aunt immediately introduced the topic 
of the anonymous tragedies, and gave utterance to her 
admiration with the generous delight in the manifesta- 
tions of kindred genius which distinguished her." 
The "sudden delight" which she thinks the author 
must have felt, did not tear the veil of reserve in which 
she had shrouaed her plays, and Mrs. Barbauld must 
have learned elsewhere her young friend's secret. Years 
after, she addressed her in the poem "1811" : — 

" Then, loved Joanna, to admiring eyes, 
Thy storied groups in scenic pomp shall rise : 
Their high-souled strains and Shakespeare's noble rage 
Shall with alternate passion shake the stage." 

In 1802 Mr. Barbauld received a call from the soci- 
ety at Newington Green, which had been under the 



lx MEMOIR. 

pastoral care of Dr. Price. The fact that Dr. Aikin 
had permanently fixed his abode in this village, which 
was quiet and yet convenient of access to London, was 
a great inducement to Mrs. Barbauld, and caused her 
to leave the many dear Hampstead friends with less 
reluctance. William Howitt, some years since, said of 
the Green, " It is one of the oldest places of the parish, 
and has had ancient houses and distinguished inhabi- 
tants. It had, till of late years, a still, out-of-the-way 
look, surrounded in most parts by large trees, and 
green lanes to it on all sides." One of her letters to 
Mrs. Kenrick gives a description of what might have 
been a happy home : " We have a pretty little back 
parlor that looks into our little spot of a garden," she 
says, "and catches every gleam of sunshine. We 
have pulled down the ivy, except what covers the 
coach-house. We have planted a vine and a passion- 
flower, with abundance of jasmine, against the window, 
and we have scattered roses and honey-suckle all over 
the garden. You may smile at me for parading so over 
my house and domains." In May she writes a pleasant 
letter, in good spirits, comparing her correspondence 
with her friend to the flower of an aloe, which sleeps 
for a hundred years, and on a sudden pushes out when 
least expected. " But take notice, the life is in the aloe 
all the while, and sorry should I be if the life were not 
in our friendship all the while, though it so rarely dif- 
fuses itself over a sheet of paper." 

The writer saw it much changed a few years since. 
The quaint houses are now crowded by suburban villas 



MEMOIR. lxi 

bearing the usual flowery inscriptions over their preten- 
tious gates, and Newington is no longer the sequestered 
and rural place it was when good Mrs. Barbauld settled 
herself in her quaint little home next that occupied by 
John Aikin. This happy family reunion had its sad 
drawback in the shape of the ill health and increasing 
irritability of Mr. Barbauld. The wearing life led by 
Mrs. Barbauld, and the overshadowing anxiety, made 
itself felt when she wrote an old friend in 1802, just 
after this change of home, " My enthusiasm is all gone, 
— not for Buonaparte, for with regard to him I never 
had any, — but for most things. I wish there were any 
process, electric, galvanic, or through any other me- 
dium, by which we might recover some of the fine feel- 
ings which age is so apt to blunt ; it would be the true 
secret of growing young." 

For the "Annual Review," edited by her nephew- 
Arthur Aikin, Mrs. Barbauld prepared some reviews of 
the poetry and polite literature of the day for the earlier 
volumes, and among these may be mentioned the cri- 
tique on the " Lay," named by Scott as the review of 
it which he " approved and admired the most." 

The year 1804 was a happier period, and we read a 
lively letter written from Tunbridge Wells, describing 
the various diversions of the crowds who walked the 
Pantiles for health or pleasure. 

In this year Mrs. Barbauld was asked to prepare a 
selection from the "Spectator," "Tatler," "Guardian," 
and " Freemen," with an essay on the various writers 
whose papers are there embalmed for the edification of 



lxii MEMOIR. 

the future student of the finest English style. This 
essay has been considered by many critics as Mrs. 
Barbauld's finest piece of work. The genius and power 
of Addison has never been more ably displayed than in 
the nice and discriminating study of his works here 
offered by Mrs. Barbauld. Steele, and other writers of 
the day, contributors to these periodicals, are briefly 
but carefully and judiciously reviewed by her skilful 
hand. The essay opens with the observation that " it 
is equally true of books as of their authors, that one 
generation passeth away and another cometh." The 
mutual influence exerted by books and manners on 
each other is then remarked ; and the silent and grad- 
ual declension from what might be called the active 
life of an admired and popular book to the honorable 
retirement of a classic is briefly but impressively traced ; 
the essay being closed by remarks on the mutations and 
improvements which have particularly affected the 
works in question. 

During the same year Mrs. Barbauld, having been 
asked to prepare a life of Richardson and edit his let- 
ters, began the work. The real value of the work lies 
in her biography, and the dull, prolix letters of the 
publisher-novelist are very uninteresting. The bright 
and pleasant account of his life, his stories, and his 
friends and home makes modern readers for Richard- 
son. Many excellent critics thought the "Life of 
Richardson " Mrs. Barbauld's best work. Charles 
James Fox told Samuel Rogers he thought it " admi- 
rable, and regretted that she had wasted her talents on 



MEMOIR. lxiii 

writing books for children (excellent as "those books 
might be) now that there were so many pieces of that 
description." 

One day, as Mrs. Barbauld was going home from 
London in the stage-coach she had a Frenchman for 
her companion, and upon entering into conversation 
with him she found that he was making an excursion to 
Hampstead for the express purpose of seeing the house 
in the Flask Walk where Clarissa Harlowe lodged. 
Rogers, in telling this anecdote, adds, " What a com- 
pliment to the genius of Richardson ! " 

Mrs. Barbauld was much struck with the enthusiasm 
of the foreigner, and he for his part "was surprised," 
she says, "at the ignorance or indifference of the in- 
habitants on that subject. The Flask Walk was to 
him as classic ground as the rocks of Meilirie to the 
admirers of Rousseau." 

Henry Crabbe Robinson wrote : — 

" In December I formed a new acquaintance, of which 
I was reasonably proud, and in the recollection of which I 
still rejoice. At Hackney I saw repeatedly Miss Wake- 
field, 1 a charming girl. And one day at a party, when 
Mrs. Barbauld had been the subject of conversation, and 
I had spoken of her in enthusiastic terms, Miss Wakefield 
came to me, and said, ' Would you like to know Mrs. Bar- 
bauld?' I exclaimed, 'You might as well ask me whether 
I should like to know the Angel Gabriel ! ' ' Mrs. Bar- 
bauld is, however, more accessible. I will introduce you 
to her nephew.' She then called to Charles Aikin, whom 
she soon after married ; and he said : ' I dine every Sun- 

1 Daughter of Gilbert Wakefield. 



lxiv MEMOIR. 

day with my uncle and aunt at Stoke Newington, and I 
am expected always to bring a friend with me. Two 
knives and forks are laid for me. Will you go with me 
next Sunday ? ' Gladly acceding to the proposal, I had 
the good fortune to make myself agreeable, and soon 
became intimate in the house. 

" Mr. Barbauld had a slim figure, a meagre face, and a 
shrill voice. He talked a great deal, and was fond of 
dwelling on controversial points in religion. He was by 
no means destitute of ability, though the afflictive disease 
was lurking in him, which in a few years broke out, and, 
as is well known, caused a sad termination to his life. 

" Mrs. Barbauld bore the remains of great personal 
beauty. She had a brilliant complexion, light hair, blue 
eyes, a small, elegant figure, and her manners were very 
agreeable, with something of the generation then depart- 
ing. She received me very kindly, spoke very civilly of 
my aunt, Zachary Crabbe, and said she had herself once 
slept at my father's house. In the estimation of Words- 
worth she was the first of our literary women, and he was 
not bribed to this judgment by any especial congeniality 
of feeling, or by concurrence in speculative opinions. I 
may here relate an anecdote concerning her and Words- 
worth : It was after her death that Lucy Aikin published 
Mrs. Barbauld's collected works, of which I gave a copy 
to Miss Wordsworth. Among the poems is a stanza on 
Life, written in extreme old age. It had delighted my 
sister, to whom I repeated it on her death-bed. It was 
long after I gave these works to Miss Wordsworth that 
her brother said, ' Repeat me that stanza by Mrs. Bar- 
bauld.' I did so. He made me repeat it again. And so 
he learned it by heart. He was at the time walking in 
his sitting-room at Rydal, with hands behind him ; I 



MEMOIR. lxv 

heard him mutter to himself, ' I am not in the habit of 
grudging other people their good things, but I wish I had 
written those lines,' and repeated to himself the stanza 
which I have already quoted : — 

1 Life we 've been long together,' etc." 

In naming a number of poetesses, Wordsworth him- 
self, in writing to Mr. Dyce in 1830, put Mrs. Barbauld 
at the head of the list. He mentions Helen Maria 
Williams, Charlotte Smith, Anna Seward, and others, 
and adds of Mrs. Barbauld, that, "with much higher 
powers of mind," she "was spoiled as a poetess by 
being a Dissenter, and concerned with a Dissenting 
Academy. . . . One of the most pleasing passages in 
her poetry is the close of the lines on ' Life,' written, 
I believe, when she was not less than eighty years of 
age," and he quotes it to his friend. " He much ad- 
mired Mrs. Barbauld's ' Essays,' and sent a copy of 
them, with a laudatory note, to the then Archbishop of 
Canterbury, his friend," says the biographer of the poet. 

The great Lake Poet appears to have disregarded 
the fact that his own father was an attorney, and acted 
as agent to a nobleman, and he himself consented to 
hold an office of small honor but fair salary, — that of 
stamp distributor, — and later receive a pension from 
government; all of which makes it rather unjust in him 
to blame Mrs. Barbauld for the position in life to which 
she was born. 

Mrs. Barbauld made some little journeys during the 
year 1805. We hear of a visit at Dorking and some 
weeks spent in London lodgings, where she offered to 



lxvi MEMOIR. 

take Lucy Aikin, but she refused, saying to a corre- 
spondent : " The Barbaulds are going next week to 
lodgings in town, which they have taken for a few 
weeks, in order to see everything and everybody with 
little trouble. They wish me to go and share their 
gayety, but I feel by no means equal to racketing at 
present, and my father shows little inclination to in- 
trust me to the prudence of my aunt, who is at least 
forty years younger than I am." 

What poor Mrs. Barbauld could have done with her 
niece, beyond giving her many desirable introductions, 
it is hard to see. 

The condition of her husband must have been 
enough to steady the gayest nature. A sudden outburst 
of violence, in which he threatened Mrs. Barbauld's 
life put an end to the long restraint the devoted wife 
had put on her nerves and heart. For years his temper 
had been very trying, and sudden outbreaks of fury 
even at Palgrave made her cares very great ; but this 
attack was accompanied by such hallucinations regard- 
ing his wife and Dr. Aikin that he was removed to a 
house next that of Dr. C. R. Aikin, in the care of a 
keeper. 

For several years his eccentricities had been very 
trying to his wife. He would spend whole days wash- 
ing himself. A lady whom the Barbaulds visited a few 
years before his death wrote of this peculiar craze that 
frequently at six o'clock in the afternoon, after all day 
had been passed by him bathing, Mrs. Barbauld would 
urge him to walk with them. Again and again she 



MEMOIR. lxvii 

would ask him if he was ready, calling in her kindest 
tones, " Rochemont, Rochemont, are you coming ? We 
are all waiting for you to walk with us ! " " Yes, my 
dear," the little man would reply, " I am just washing 
myself, and will soon be ready to go with you." 

It became a very dangerous position, however, for 
his wife, some time before she consented to give up 
her brave and self-sacrificing devotion ; but at last, fre- 
quent attempts upon her life brought about a necessary 
change in their relations. After his removal to London 
she did not give up all hopes for his recovery, though 
his disease was hereditary, and she tried to cheer her- 
self as well as she could with thoughts of old friends. 
She wrote briefly of the sad condition of Mr. Barbauld, 
urging her old friend "Betsy " to visit her. " An alien- 
ation from me has taken possession of his mind," 
she says, in a letter to Mrs. Kenrick ; " my presence 
seems to irritate him, and I must resign myself to a 
separation from him who has been for thirty years the 
partner of my heart, my faithful friend, my inseparable 
companion." 

A little later, after Mrs. Kenrick had made her a 
visit, and comforted her in her desolate home, she 
wrote, when again alone, to her of Mr. Barbauld. 

" He is now at Norwich, and I hear very favorable ac- 
counts of his health and spirits ; he seems to enjoy him- 
self very much among his old friends there, and converses 
among them with his usual animation. There are no 
symptoms of violence or of depression ; so far is favorable ; 
but this cruel alienation from me, in which my brother is 



lxviii MEMOIR. 

included, still remains deep-rooted, and whether he will 
ever change in this point Heaven only knows ; the medi- 
cal men fear he will not. If so, my dear friend, what 
remains for me but to resign myself to the will of Heaven, 
and to think with pleasure that every day brings me 
nearer a period which naturally cannot be very far off, 
and at which this as well as every temporal affliction must 
terminate ? 

" ' Anything but this ! ' is the cry of weak mortals when 
afflicted ; and sometimes I own I am inclined to make it 
mine ; but I will check myself." 

The improvement in the sufferer's health and spirits 
was such that he was allowed more freedom, and being 
trusted with money, he bribed his keepers to let him 
walk out. He disappeared, and being looked for, was 
found dead in the New River, attracted doubtless by 
his singular fancy for bathing at all times and places. 

As before said, Mrs. Le Breton having published 
what was known generally, though not publicly stated, 
concealment is no longer necessary, and one can only 
revere and admire the more the fortitude and courage, 
and the true wifely devotion of Mrs. Barbauld to her 
husband. It is no longer a matter of surprise that she 
did so little literary work after her marriage ; the wonder 
is that she lived so calm and beautiful a life, full of the 
noblest silence about her cruel lot. 

One better understands that mind which wrote what 
Sir James Mackintosh calls as fine a piece of mitigated 
and rational stoicism as our language can boast of, — the 
observations on the moral of Clarissa Harlowe. It is but 
simple justice to name the great trial of Mrs. Barbauld's 



MEMOIR. lxix 

life, as a better evidence of the powers of her mind than 
all her writings, grand and powerful as all the great 
minds of England pronounce them. 

In the year 1809, Mrs. Barbauld had the strength of 
mind to turn her attention to literary work ; and receiv- 
ing an offer to prepare a " Collection of the British 
Novelists," she edited, with introductions, lives, and 
notes, the fifty charming volumes which appeared in 
the year 18 10, an edition highly valued now as then. 
Sir Walter Scott acknowledged his indebtedness to 
Mrs. Barbauld for some material he used on Ballantyne's 
" Novelists " which he received from her. 

In 181 1, appeared from her hand the selection of 
prose and verse known to the scholars of the day as 
the " Enfield Speaker," a work in one volume, intended 
for the use of young ladies. 

The year 181 1 was a memorable one for Mrs. Bar- 
bauld. For years she had felt the apathy which open 
or concealed grief and distress causes the strongest 
mind, the bravest heart. The work of biographer, edi- 
tor, or annotator was sufficiently easy to her well-trained 
mind and vigorous reasoning powers to afford her re- 
laxation, not exhilaration or inspiration. At last she 
felt a stirring of the old poetic fire which blazed in the 
"Corsica," the "Epistle on Slavery," addressed to Wil- 
liam Wilberforce, the "Summer Evening's Meditation," 
and the noble "Address to the Deity," with the soul- 
inspiring hymns. The subject of her poem was the 
luxury and ambition of Great Britain, and the warning 
conveyed to the nation was, that unbounded ambition 



lxx MEMOIR. 

and unjustifiable wars must finally destroy the noblest 
government. 

" Arts, arms, and wealth destroy the fruits they bring ; 
Commerce, like beauty, knows no second spring." 

She may justly claim the simile used by many later 
writers, and by none more grandly than by Macaulay 
in his sonorous prose, — that of the New Zealander who 
" shall, in the midst of a vast solitude, take his stand on. 
a broken arch of London Bridge to sketch the ruins of 
St. Paul's." The youth from Ontario's shore was no 
more objectionable than Macaulay 's New Zealander, 
but the indignation of the critics at the thought was 
most violent. The visit to the former seat of a grand 
empire upon which the sun never set was as follows : — 

"Pensive and thoughtful shall the wanderers greet 
Each splendid square, and still untrodden street ; 
Or, of some crumbling turret, mined by time, 
The broken stairs with perilous step shall climb; 
Thence stretch their view the wide horizon round, 
By scattered hamlets trace its ancient bound, 
And, choked no more with fleets, fair Thames survey 
Through reeds and sedge pursue his idle way." 

A singularly offensive article in the " London Quar- 
terly " for 1812, noted for its bitterness towards women, 
attacked the venerable lady. It was not known till long 
after that this was the work of Southey. He descends 
to personal insult in the attack, knocking even her 
spectacles and knitting-needles about in the assault. 
There was a good deal of scurrility written and printed 



MEMOIR. lxxi 

in the letters which come to us from Coleridge, Lamb, 
Godwin and others of that set, — literary men of a cer- 
tain school. During their lives they were very glad, as 
we learn, to accept the friendship and hospitality of Mrs. 
Barbauld. Jealousy, or disappointed literary aspira- 
tions, often had a part in these gentle personalities, as 
when Lamb called Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. Barbauld 
"his bald women," nicknamed her Ba7'ebald and the 
like. At another time Charles wrote to Coleridge : 
" ' Goody Two Shoes ' is almost out of print. Mrs. Bar- 
bauld's stuff has banished all the old classics of the 
nursery, and the shopmen at Newberry's hardly deigned 
to reach them off an old shelf when Mary asked for 
them. Mrs. Barbauld's and Mrs. Trimmer's nonsense 
lay in piles around." More of this he added, ending, 
" Hang them ! I mean the cursed reasoning crew, 
those blights and blasts of all that is human in man 
and child." 

It is not wonderful that Southey wished Lamb to 
" declare war upon Mrs. Barebold. He should singe 
her flaxen wig," he adds, " with squibs, and tie crack- 
ers to her petticoats till she leaped about like a parched 
pea for very torture. There is no man in the world 
who could so well revenge himself." This extraordinary 
tirade on the part of the poet-laureate was provoked by 
the rejection of an article he sent Arthur Aikin for his 
magazine. The revenge he took was most brutal, and 
the pain inflicted was never forgotten by Mrs. Barbauld. 
She never printed anything after the appearance of this 
poem and the abusive criticism of the " Quarterly." 



lxxii MEMOIR. 

She wrote, however, occasionally, and the exquisite 
lines on "Life," the ode which Wordsworth wished 
he had written, and Tennyson called " sweet verses," 
were composed after this. 

Mr. Murray was known to regret exceedingly the 
appearance of Southey's article in the "Review," of 
which he was then the publisher. He said he was 
more ashamed of it than of anything that had ever been 
published in that periodical. 

To the quiet little home at Newington came many 
distinguished men and women. Earnest thinkers, 
learned men and women, clever and appreciative of 
the talents of others were often seen at the door, and 
the little parlor of Mrs. Barbauld was frequently the 
meeting-place of England's men of mark. Here came 
Mackintosh and Macaulay, Coleridge and Charles 
Lamb, Sir Henry Holland, Dr. Channing, the Edge- 
worths, Sir John Bowring, Sir James Smith. Samuel 
Rogers, and Joanna Baillie, with her sister Agnes, were 
among the old Hampstead friends. In 1815 one 
reads of a day at Hampstead at the Carrs, " a charm- 
ing day," when Sir Walter Scott told the old lady her 
reading of Taylor's " Lenore," " Tramp, tramp, splash, 
splash," " made him a poet." 

One gets a glimpse of her taking up a little girl into 
her lap and asking her if she could read, and what book 
she was then reading. " I answered, ' Barbauld's Les- 
sons,' quite unconscious I was sitting in the lap of their 
author. She then said, ' I suppose you study geogra- 
phy, and can tell me what ocean is between England 



MEMOIR. lxxiii 

and America?'" Mrs. Farrar adds that her mother 
having relatives in America, to whom she wrote often, 
she was able to answer this question ; but fearing that 
the next might be more difficult, she slid down from the 
perch, where she was very comfortable, and ran off. 
She says, " I often met her after I was grown up, and 
remember her as a sweet-looking, lively old lady, wear- 
ing her gray hair, which was then uncommon, reading 
aloud to a circle of young people on a rainy morning in 
the country. She read well ; the book was ' Guy Man- 
nering,' then just published." Mrs. Barbauld then 
made them all draw their impressions of the witch, and 
kept that done by Mrs. Farrar's sister. " The kind old 
lady" and her pleasant manners made much of an im- 
pression on the youthful mind of Mrs. Farrar, who long 
after recalled with pleasure her venerable friend. 

In the summer of 1812 Mrs. Barbauld, who always 
enjoyed a journey, made a visit to Hannah More, while 
she was with the Estlins at Bristol. It was thirty years 
since the two had met, — thirty years of change and 
sorrow for Mrs. Barbauld, but Miss More she found 
very much as she left her. " Nothing could be more 
friendly than their reception, and nothing more charm- 
ing than their situation." The thatched cottage over- 
looking the lovely view of Wrington and the Mendip 
Hills, and standing on a slight declivity, they had 
planted and made " quite a little paradise." She adds, 
"The five sisters, all good old maids, have lived to- 
gether these fifty years, without any break having been 
made in their little community, by death or any other 



lxxiv MEMOIR. 

cause of separation. Hannah More is a good deal 
broken by illness, but possesses fully her powers of 
conversation, and her vivacity. We exchanged riddles 
like the wise men of old." 

Dr. Channing, who saw Mrs. Barbauld in her old age, 
was much struck with her mental vigor and the interest 
she felt in daily events. He said to a friend, after- 
wards, " I recollect with much pleasure the visit which 
we paid with you to Mrs. Barbauld. It is rare to meet 
with such sensibility, mildness, and I may say sweet- 
ness, united with the venerableness of old age ; and I 
was particularly gratified with seeing, in a woman so 
justly distinguished, such entire absence of the con- 
sciousness of authorship." And after her death, in 
writing Lucy Aikin, he said, " I remember my short 
interview with her with much pleasure. Perhaps I 
never saw a person of her age who had preserved so 
much of youth, — on whom time had laid so gentle a 
hand. Her countenance had nothing of the rigidness 
and hard lines of advanced life, but responded to the 
mind like a young woman's. I carry it with me as 
one of the treasures of memory." 

Mrs. Barbauld visited more or less in the later years 
of her life. One letter of 1819, from Miss Aikin, in 
speaking of their home-circle says, " We are all quite 
well here ; my Aunt Barbauld hears as quick as ever," 
and " though complaining a little, occasionally, has 
continued to make many visits, and enjoy, I think, a 
great deal of pleasure this summer." She herself wrote 
of the season, and her visiting one friend's house : 



MEMOIR. lxxv 

" Our weather is still pleasant. I am going to spend 
two or three days at , Mr. and Miss B. and my- 
self in a post-chaise. An agreeable companion in a 
post-chaise — though I would not advertise for one — 
is certainly an agreeable thing. You talk, and yet you 
are not bound to talk ; and if the conversation drops, 
you may pick it up again at every brook, or village, or 
seat you pass, — 'What 's o'clock ? ' and ' How 's the 
! wind ? ' ' Whose chariot 's that we left behind ? ' You 
may sulk in a corner if you will ; nay, you may sleep, 
without offence." 

The sketches of Mr. Murch, president of the Bath 
Literary Association, contain a pleasant reminiscence 
of the eloquent praise bestowed by Walter Savage 
Landor on Mrs. Barbauld at a dinner. Mr. Murch says : 
" He spoke of her as 'the first writer of the day,' and 
became so enthusiastic in her praise that he ended by 
gaining the attention of the entire company. His good 
memory enabled him to repeat his favorite passages. 
After quoting the following passage from the ' Summer 
Evening's Meditation ' he turned in his well-known 
manner, and asked, ' Can you show me anything finer 
in the English language ? ' — 

" ' But are they silent all ? — or is there not 
A tongue in every star that talks with man, 
And woos him to be wise ? Nor woos in vain : 
This dead of midnight is the noon of thought, 
And Wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars. 
At this still hour the self-collected soul 
Turns inward ; and behold ! a stranger there, 



lxxvi MEMOIR. 

Of high descent and more than mortal rank, — 
An embryo God ! — a spark of fire divine, 
Which must burn on for ages, when the sun — 
Fair transitory creature of a day — 
Has closed his golden eye, and, wrapt in shades, 
Forgets his wonted journey through the east.' 

" The very impressive manner of the speaker height- 
ened the effect of the words intended to convey the 
deep, solemn, awful silence of the stars." 

It was to this poem Leigh Hunt made allusion in his 
lines on Mrs. Barbauld, in the " Blue Stocking Revels," 
published in 1837 in the " Monthly Repository," where 
he says, after naming other poetesses and novelists of 
the day : — 

" Then Barbauld, fine teacher, correcting impatience, 
Or mounting the stars in divine meditations." 

The ode " Life " was written after Mrs. Barbauld was 
seventy years old; and there is another impressive 
poem, "Octogenary Reflections," a touching bit of 
personal experience. It begins : — 

" Say ye, who through this round of eighty years 
Have proved its joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, 
Say, what is life, ye veterans who have trod, 
Step following step, its flowery, thorny road ? 
Enough of good to kindle strong desire ; 
Enough of ill to damp the rising fire ; 
Enough of love and fancy, joy and hope, 
To fan desire and give the passions scope ; 
Enough of disappointment, sorrow, pain, 
To seal the wise man's sentence — 'All is vain.' " 



MEMOIR. lxxvii 

One observer, who saw her often, said, only a short 
time before she died, "She is now the confirmed old 
lady. Independently of her fine understanding, and 
literary reputation, she would be interesting. Her 
white locks, fair and unwrinkled skin, brilliant starched 
linen, and rich silk gown, make her a fit object for a 
painter. Her conversation is lively, her remarks judi- 
cious, and always pertinent." The usual fate of those 
who live long was hers. She saw her brother suffer 
much and long, and then, as he himself said, — 

" From the banquet of Life rise a satisfied guest, 
Thank the Lord of the Feast, and in hope go to rest." 

Mrs. Kenrick, a very dear and life-long friend, was 
lost in 1819. A few months later came the tidings of 
the death of Mrs. John Taylor, of Norwich, perhaps her 
most near and sympathetic friend in spirit, though 
always more separated by distance than some others. 
For her she always cherished peculiarly tender feelings. 
To this lady she wrote, after the tragic death of Mr. 
Barbauld, " A thousand thanks for your kind letter, still 
more for the very short visit that preceded it. Though 
short — too short — it has left indelible impressions on 
my mind. My heart has truly had communion with 
yours ; your sympathy has been balm to it ; and I feel 
that there is now no one on earth to whom I could 
pour out that heart more readily." 

Some striking lines were lound among her papers, 
written not many months before her death. One, a 
fragment in which she likens herself to a schoolboy who 



lxxviii MEMOIR. 

is left forgotten, and hears no wheels to bear him to his 
father's home : — 

" To him alone no summons comes. 

Thus I 
Look to the hour when I shall follow those 
That are at rest before me." 

Another is a natural and simple comparison of her- 
self to a leaf left alone : — 

" Fall, fall ! poor leaf, that on the naked bough, 
Sole lingering spectacle of sad decay, 
Sits shivering at the blasts of dark November. 
Thy fellows strew the ground ; not one is left 
To grace thy naked side. Late, who could count 
Their number multitudinous and thick, 
Veiling the noon-day blaze ? Behind their shade, 
The birds half-hid disported ; clustering fruit 
Behind their ample shade lay glowing ripe. 
No bird salutes thee now ; nor the green sap 
Mounts in thy veins : thy spring is gone, thy summer ; 
Even the crimson tints, 
Thy grave but rich autumnal livery, 
That pleased the eye of contemplation. 
Some filament perhaps, some tendril stronger 
Than all the rest, resists the whistling blast. 
Fall, fall, poor leaf ! 
Thy solitary, single self shows more 
The nakedness of winter. 
Why wait and fall, and strew the ground like them ? " 

She welcomed the approaching change with compo- 
sure and relief, as a release from weakness and suffering ; 
consented to change her home to that of her nephew 






MEMOIR. lxxix 

and adopted son Charles, and was so little distressed 
by her decline of strength that she was visiting her 
sister-in-law, Mrs. Aikin, when she very rapidly failed, 
and passed away gently from earth on the 9th of 
March, 1825, in the eighty-second year of her age. 

For this noble heart, with its life -long burden grandly 
borne, what more appropriate words than her own 
beautiful lines on the death of the virtuous ? — 

" So fades a summer cloud away ; 

So sinks the gale when storms are o'er ; 
So gently shuts the eye of day ; 
So dies a wave along the shore. 

" Farewell, conflicting joys and fears, 

Where light and shade alternate dwell ; 
How bright the unchanging morn appears ! 
Farewell, inconstant world, farewell ! 



" While heaven and earth combine to say, 
'Sweet is the scene when virtue dies ! ' " 



THE HILL OF SCIENCE. 

A VISION. 

In that season of the year when the serenity of the 
sky, the various fruits which cover the ground, the 
discolored foliage of the trees, and all the sweet but 
fading graces of inspiring autumn open the mind to 
benevolence, and dispose it for contemplation, I was 
wandering in a beautiful and romantic country, till 
curiosity began to give way to weariness ; and I sat 
me down on the fragment of a rock overgrown with 
moss, where the rustling of the falling leaves, the 
dashing of waters, and the hum of the distant city 
soothed my mind into the most perfect tranquillity, 
and sleep insensibly stole upon me, as I was indulging 
the agreeable reveries which the objects around me 
naturally inspired. 

I immediately found myself in a vast extended 
plain, in the middle of which arose a mountain higher 
than I had before any conception of. It was covered 
with a multitude of people, chiefly youth ; many of 
whom pressed forwards with the liveliest expression 
of ardor in their countenance, though the way was in 
many places steep and difficult. I observed that those 
who had but just begun to climb the hill thought them- 
selves not far from the top ; but, as they proceeded, 
new hills were continually rising to their view ; and 
the summit of the highest they could before discern 
seemed but the foot of another, till the mountain at 
length appeared to lose itself in the clouds. As I was 
gazing on these things with astonishment, my good 



2 THE HILL OF SCIENCE. 

Genius suddenly appeared. "The mountain before 
thee," said he, "is the Hill of Science. On the top 
is the temple of Truth, whose head is above the 
clouds, and whose face is covered with a veil of pure 
light. Observe the progress of her votaries ; be silent 
and attentive." 

I saw that the only regular approach to the moun- 
tain was by a gate, called the Gate of Languages. It 
was kept by a woman of a pensive and thoughtful 
appearance, whose lips were continually moving, as 
though she repeated something to herself. Her name 
was Memory. On entering this first enclosure I was 
stunned with a confused murmur of jarring voices and 
dissonant sounds, which increased upon me to such a 
degree that I was utterly confounded, and could com- 
pare the noise to nothing but the confusion of tongues 
at Babel. The road was also rough and stony, and 
rendered more difficult by heaps of rubbish, continu- 
ally tumbled down from the higher parts of the moun- 
tain, and by broken ruins of ancient buildings, which 
the travellers were obliged to climb over at every step ; 
insomuch that many, disgusted with so rough a begin- 
ning, turned back, and attempted the mountain no 
more ; while others, having conquered this difficulty, 
had no spirits to ascend further, and, sitting down on 
some fragment of the rubbish, harangued the multi- 
tude below with the greatest marks of importance and 
self-complacency. 

About half-way up the hill, I observed on each side 
the path a thick forest, covered with continual fogs, 
and cut out into labyrinths, cross-alleys, and serpentine 
walks, entangled with thorns and briars. This was 
called the Wood of Error ; and I heard the voices of 
many who were lost up and down in it, calling to one 
another and endeavoring in vain to extricate them- 
selves. The trees in many places shot their boughs 
over the path, and a thick mist often rested on it ; yet 



THE HILL OF SCIENCE. 3 

never so much but that it was discernible by the light 
which beamed from the countenance of Truth. 

In the pleasantest part of the mountain were placed 
the bowers of the Muses, whose office it was to cheer 
the spirits of the travellers, and encourage their faint- 
ing steps with songs from their divine harps. Not far 
from hence were the Fields of Fiction, filled with a 
variety of wild flowers springing up in the greatest 
luxuriance, of richer scents and brighter colors than I 
had observed in any other climate. And near them 
was the Dark Walk of Allegory, so artificially shaded 
that the light at noonday was never stronger than that 
of a bright moonshine. This gave it a pleasingly 
romantic air for those who delighted in contemplation. 
The paths and alleys were perplexed with intricate 
windings, and were all terminated with the statue of a 
Grace, a Virtue, or a Muse. 

After I had observed these things I turned my eyes 
towards the multitudes who were climbing the steep 
ascent, and observed amongst them a youth of a lively 
look, a piercing eye, and something fiery and irregular 
in all his motions. His name was Genius. He 
darted like an eagle up the mountain, and left his com- 
panions gazing after him with envy and admiration ; 
but his progress was unequal, and interrupted by a 
thousand caprices. When Pleasure warbled in the 
valley, he mingled in her train. When Pride beckoned 
towards the precipice, he ventured to the tottering 
edge. He delighted in devious and untried paths ; 
and made so many excursions from the road that his 
feebler companions often outstripped him. I observed 
that the Muses beheld him with partiality ; but Truth 
often frowned and turned aside her face. While 
Genius was thus wasting his strength in eccentric 
flights, I saw a person of a very different appearance, 
named Application. He crept along with a slow and 
unremitting pace, his eyes fixed on the top of the 



4 THE HILL OF SCIENCE. 

mountain, patiently removing every stone that ob- 
structed his way, till he saw most of those below him 
who had at first derided his slow and toilsome prog- 
ress. Indeed there were few who ascended the hill 
with equal and uninterrupted steadiness ; for, beside 
the difficulties of the way, they were continually so- 
licited to turn aside by a numerous crowd of Appetites, 
Passions, and Pleasures, whose importunity, when they 
had once complied with, they became less and less 
able to resist ; and, though they often returned to the 
path, the asperities of the road were more severely 
felt, the hill appeared more steep and rugged, the 
fruits, which were wholesome and refreshing, seemed 
harsh and ill-tasted, their sight grew dim, and their feet 
tripped at every little obstruction. 

I saw with some surprise that the Muses, whose 
business was to cheer and encourage those who were 
toiling up the ascent, would often sing in the bowers 
of Pleasure, and accompany those who were enticed 
away at the call of the Passions. They accompanied 
them, however, but a little way, and always forsook 
them when they lost sight of the hill. Their tyrants 
then doubled their chains upon the unhappy captives, 
and led them away without resistance to the cells of 
Ignorance or the mansions of Misery. Amongst the 
innumerable seducers who were endeavoring to draw 
away the votaries of Truth from the path of Science, 
there was one, so little formidable in her appearance, 
and so gentle and languid in her attempts, that I 
should scarcely have taken notice of her but for the 
numbers she had imperceptibly loaded with her chains. 
Indolence (for so she was called) , far from proceeding 
to open hostilities, did not attempt to turn their feet 
out of the path, but contented herself with retarding 
their progress ; and the purpose she could not force 
them to abandon she persuaded them to delay. Her 
touch had a power like that of the torpedo, which 



THE HILL OF SCIENCE. 5 

withered the strength of those who came within its 
influence. Her unhappy captives still turned their 
faces towards the temple, and always hoped to arrive 
there ; but the ground seemed to slide from beneath 
their feet, and they found themselves at the bottom 
before they suspected that they had changed their 
place. The placid serenity which at first appeared in 
their countenance changed by degrees into a melan- 
choly languor, which was tinged with deeper and 
deeper gloom as they glided down the Stream of In- 
significance, — a dark and sluggish water, which is 
curled by no breeze, and enlivened by no murmur, till 
it falls into a dead sea, where the startled passengers 
are awakened by the shock, and the next moment 
buried in the Gulf of Oblivion. 

Of all the unhappy deserters from the paths of 
Science none seemed less able to return than the fol- 
lowers of Indolence. The captives of Appetite and 
Passion could often seize the moment when their 
tyrants were languid or asleep, to escape from their 
enchantment ; but the dominion of Indolence was con- 
stant and unremitted, and seldom resisted till resistance 
was in vain. 

After contemplating these things I turned my eyes 
towards the top of the mountain, where the air was 
always pure and exhilarating, the path shaded with 
laurels and other evergreens, and the effulgence which 
beamed from the face of the Goddess seemed to shed 
a glory round her votaries. Happy, said I, are they 
who are permitted to ascend the mountain ! But 
while I was pronouncing this exclamation with uncom- 
mon ardor, I saw standing beside me a form of diviner 
features and a more benign radiance. " Happier," 
said she, " are those whom Virtue conducts to the man- 
sions of Content ! " " What ! " said I, " does Virtue then 
reside in the vale? " " I am found," said she, " in the 
vale, and I illuminate the mountain. I cheer the cot- 



6 AGAINST INCONSISTENCY 

tager at his toil, and inspire the sage at his meditation. 
I mingle in the crowd of cities, and bless the hermit in 
his cell. I have a temple in every heart that owns my 
influence ; and to him that wishes for me I am already 
present. Science may raise you to eminence, but I 
alone can guide you to felicity." While the Goddess 
was thus speaking I stretched out my arms towards 
her with a vehemence which broke my slumbers. 
The chill dews were falling around me, and the shades 
of evening stretched over the landscape. I hastened 
homeward, and resigned the night to silence and 
meditation. 



AGAINST INCONSISTENCY IN OUR 
EXPECTATIONS. 

" What is more reasonable, than that they who take 
pains for any thing, should get most in that particular 
for which they take pains ? They have taken pains for 
power, you for right principles ; they for riches, you 
for a proper use of the appearances of things : see 
whether they have the advantage of you in that for 
which you have taken pains, and which they neglect. 
If they are in power, and you not, why will not you 
speak the truth to yourself, that you do nothing for the 
sake of power, but that they do every thing ? No, but 
since I take care to have right principles, it is more 
reasonable that I should have power. Yes, in respect 
to what you take care about, your principles. But give 
up to others the things in which they have taken more 
care than you. Else it is just as if, because you have 
right principles, you should think it fit that when you 
shoot an arrow, you should hit the mark better than 
an archer, or that you should forge better than a 
smith." Carter's Epictetus. 



IN OUR EXPECTATIONS. 7 

As most of the unhappiness in the world arises rather 
from disappointed desires than from positive evil, it is 
of the utmost consequence to attain just notions of the 
laws and order of the universe, that we may not vex 
ourselves with fruitless wishes, or give way to ground- 
less and unreasonable discontent. The laws of natural 
.philosophy, indeed, are tolerably understood and at- 
tended to ; and though we may suffer inconveniences, 
we are seldom disappointed in consequence of them. 
No man expects to preserve orange-trees in the open 
air through an English winter ; or when he has planted 
an acorn, to see it become a large oak in a few 
months. The mind of man naturally yields to neces- 
sity ; and our wishes soon subside when we see the 
impossibility of their being gratified. Now, upon an 
accurate inspection, we shall find, in the moral govern- 
ment of the world, and the order of the intellectual 
system, laws as determinate, fixed, and invariable as 
any in Newton's Principia. The progress of vegetation 
is not more certain than the growth of habit ; nor is 
the power of attraction more clearly proved than the 
force of affection or the influence of example. The 
man therefore who has well studied the operations of 
nature in mind as well as matter, will acquire a certain 
moderation and equity in his claims upon Providence. 
He never will be disappointed either in himself or 
others. He will act with precision ; and expect that 
effect and that alone from his efforts, which they are 
naturally adapted to produce. For want of this, men 
of merit and integrity often censure the dispositions of 
Providence for suffering characters they despise, to run 
away with advantages which, they yet know, are pur- 
chased by such means as a high and noble spirit could 
never submit to. If you refuse to pay the price, why 
expect the purchase ? We should consider this world as 
a great mart of commerce, where fortune exposes to 
our view various commodities, riches, ease, tranquillity. 



8 AGAINST INCONSISTENCY 

fame, integrity, knowledge. Every thing is marked at 
a settled price. Our time, our labor, our ingenuity, is 
so much ready money which we are to lay out to the 
best advantage. Examine, compare, choose, reject ; 
but stand to your own judgment ; and do not, like chil- 
dren, when you have purchased one thing, repine that 
you do not possess another which you did not pur- 
chase. Such is the force of well-regulated industry, 
that a steady and vigorous exertion of our faculties, 
directed to one end, will generally insure success. 
Would you, for instance, be rich ? Do you think that 
single point worth the sacrificing every thing else to ? 
You may then be rich. Thousands have become so 
from the lowest beginnings by toil, and patient dili- 
gence, and attention to the minutest articles of expense 
and profit. But you must give up the pleasures of 
leisure, of a vacant mind, of a free, unsuspicious tem- 
per. If you preserve your integrity, it must be a 
coarse-spun and vulgar honesty. Those high and lofty 
notions of morals which you brought with you from 
the schools must be considerably lowered, and mixed 
with the baser alloy of a jealous and worldly-minded 
prudence. You must learn to do hard, if not unjust 
things ; and for the nice embarrassments of a delicate 
and ingenuous spirit, it is necessary for you to get rid 
of them as fast as possible. You must shut your heart 
against the Muses, and be content to feed your under- 
standing with plain, household truths. In short, you 
must not attempt to enlarge your ideas, or polish your 
taste, or refine your sentiments ; but must keep on in 
one beaten track, without turning aside either to the 
right hand or to the left. "But I cannot submit to 
drudgery like this — I feel a spirit above it." T is well ; 
be above it then ; only do not repine that you are not 
rich. 

Is knowledge the pearl of price ? That, too, may be 
purchased — by steady application, and long solitary 



IN OUR EXPECTATIONS. 9 

hours of study and reflection. Bestow these, and you 
shall be wise. "But," says the man of letters, "what 
a hardship is it that many an illiterate fellow who can- 
not construe the motto of the arms on his coach, shall 
raise a fortune and make a figure, while I have little 
more than the common conveniences of life." Et tibi 
magna satis ! — Was it in order to raise a fortune that 
you consumed the sprightly hours of youth in study 
and retirement ? Was it to be rich that you grew pale 
over the midnight lamp, and distilled the sweetness 
from the Greek and Roman spring? You have then 
mistaken your path, and ill employed your industry. 
" What reward have I then for all my labors? " What 
reward ! A large comprehensive soul, well purged from 
vulgar fears, and perturbations, and prejudices ; able 
to comprehend and interpret the works of man — of 
God. A rich, flourishing, cultivated mind, pregnant 
with inexhaustible stores of entertainment and reflec- 
tion. A perpetual spring of fresh ideas ; and the con- 
scious dignity of superior- intelligence. Good heaven ! 
and what reward can you ask besides ? 

" But is it not some reproach upon the economy of 
Providence that such a one, who is a mean, dirty fel- 
low, should have amassed wealth enough to buy half a 
nation? " Not in the least. He made himself a mean, 
dirty fellow for that very end. He has paid his health, 
his conscience, his liberty for it ; and will you envy 
him his bargain ? Will you hang your head and blush 
in his presence because he outshines you in equipage 
and show ? Lift up your brow with a noble confidence, 
and say to yourself, I have not these things, it is true ; 
but it is because I have not sought, because I have 
not desired them ; it is because I possess something 
better. I have chosen my lot. I am content and 
satisfied. 

You are a modest man ; you love quiet and inde- 
pendence, and have a delicacy and reserve in your 



IO AGAINST INCONSISTENCY 

temper which renders it impossible for you to elbow 
your way in the world, and be the herald of your own 
merits. Be content then with a modest retirement, 
with the esteem of your intimate friends, with the 
praises of a blameless heart, and a delicate, ingenuous 
spirit ; but resign the splendid distinctions of the world 
to those who can better scramble for them. 

The man whose tender sensibility of conscience and 
strict regard to the rules of morality makes him scru- 
pulous and fearful of offending, is often heard to com- 
plain of the disadvantages he lies under in every path 
of honor and profit. " Could I but get over some 
nice points, and conform to the practice and opinion 
of those about me, I might stand as fair a chance as 
others for dignities and preferment." And why can you 
not? What hinders you from discarding this trouble- 
some scrupulosity of yours, which stands so grievously 
in your way? If it be a small thing to enjoy a healthful 
mind, sound at the very core, that does not shrink 
from the keenest inspection ; inward freedom from 
remorse and perturbation ; unsullied whiteness and 
simplicity of manners ; a genuine integrity 

" Pure in the last recesses of the mind ; " 

if you think these advantages an inadequate recom- 
pense for what you resign, dismiss your scruples this 
instant, and be a slave-merchant, a parasite, or — what 
you please. 

" If these be motives weak, break off betimes ; " 

and as you have not spirit to assert the dignity of 
virtue, be wise enough not to forego the emoluments 
of vice. 

I much admire the spirit of the ancient philoso- 
phers, in that they never attempted, as our moralists 
often do, to lower the tone of philosophy, and make it 



IN OUR EXPECTATIONS. II 

consistent with all the indulgences of indolence and 
sensuality. They never thought of having the bulk of 
mankind for their disciples ; but kept themselves as 
distinct as possible -from a worldly life. They plainly 
told men what sacrifices were required, and what ad- 
vantages they were which might be expected. 

" Si virtus hoc una potest dare, fortis omissis 
Hoc age deliciis " 

If you would be a philosopher, these are the terms. 
You must do thus and thus ; there is no other way. 
If not, go and be one of the vulgar. 

There is no one quality gives so much dignity to a 
character, as consistency of conduct. Even if a man's 
pursuits be wrong and unjustifiable, yet if they are pros- 
ecuted with steadiness and vigor, we cannot withhold 
our admiration. The most characteristic mark of a 
great mind is to choose some one important object, 
and pursue it through life. It was this made Caesar a 
great man. His object was ambition ; he pursued it 
steadily, and was always ready to sacrifice to it, every 
interfering passion or inclination. 

There is a pretty passage in one of Lucian's dia- 
logues, where Jupiter complains to Cupid that though 
he has had so many intrigues, he was never sincerely 
beloved. In order to be loved, says Cupid, you must 
lay aside your segis and your thunder-bolts, and you 
must curl and perfume your hair, and place a garland 
on your head, and walk with a soft step, and assume a 
winning, obsequious deportment. But, replied Jupiter, 
I am not willing to resign so much of my dignity. 
Then, returns Cupid, leave off desiring to be loved. 
He wanted to be Jupiter and Adonis at the same 
time. 

It must be confessed, that men of genius are of all 
others most inclined to make these unreasonable 
claims. As their relish for enjoyment is strong, their 



12 AGAINST INCONSISTENCY 

views large and comprehensive, and they feel them- 
selves lifted above the common bulk of mankind, they 
are apt to slight that natural reward of praise and 
admiration which is ever largely paid to distinguished 
abilities ; and to expect to be called forth to public 
notice and favor : without considering that their talents 
are commonly very unfit for active life ; that their ec- 
centricity and turn for speculation disqualifies them for 
the business of the world, which is best carried on by 
men of moderate genius; and that society is not 
obliged to reward any one who is not useful to it. 
The poets have been a very unreasonable race, and 
have often complained loudly of the neglect of genius 
and the ingratitude of the age. The tender and pen- 
sive Cowley, and the elegant Shenstone, had their 
minds tinctured by this discontent ; and even the 
sublime melancholy of Young was too much owing to 
the stings of disappointed ambition. 

The moderation we have been endeavoring to incul- 
cate, will likewise prevent much mortification and dis- 
gust in our commerce with mankind. As we ought not 
to wish in ourselves, so neither should we expect in 
our friends contrary qualifications. Young and san- 
guine, when we enter the world, and feel our affections 
drawn forth by any particular excellence in a character, 
we immediately give it credit for all others ; and are 
beyond measure disgusted when we come to discover, 
as we soon must discover, the defects in the other side 
of the balance. But nature is much more frugal than 
to heap together all manner of shining qualities in one 
glaring mass. Like a judicious painter, she endeavors 
to preserve a certain unity of style and coloring in her 
pieces. Models of absolute perfection are only to be 
met with in romance ; where exquisite beauty, and 
brilliant wit, and profound judgment, and immaculate 
virtue, are all blended together to adorn some favorite 
character. As an anatomist knows that the racer can- 



IN OUR EXPECTATIONS. 13 

not have the strength and muscles of the draught- 
horse ; and that winged men, griffons, and mermaids 
must be mere creatures of the imagination ; so the phi- 
losopher is sensible that there are combinations of 
moral qualities which never can take place but in idea. 
There is a different air and complexion in characters 
as well as in faces, though perhaps each equally beau- 
tiful ; and the excellencies of one cannot be transferred 
to the other. Thus, if one man possesses a stoical 
apathy of soul, acts independent of the opinion of the 
world, and fulfils every duty with mathematical exact- 
ness, you must not expect that man to be greatly influ- 
enced by the weakness of pity, or the partialities of 
friendship : you must not be offended that he does not 
fly to meet you after a short absence ; or require from 
him the convivial spirit and honest effusions of a warm, 
open, susceptible heart. If another is remarkable for a 
lively, active zeal, inflexible integrity, a strong indigna- 
tion against vice, and freedom in reproving it, he will 
probably have some little bluntness in his address not 
altogether suitable to polished life ; he will want the 
winning arts of conversation ; he will disgust by a kind 
of haughtiness and negligence in his manner, and often 
hurt the delicacy of his acquaintance with harsh and 
disagreeable truths. 

We usually say, that man is a genius, but he has 
some whims and oddities ; such a one has a very gen- 
eral knowledge, but he is superficial, etc. Now in all 
such cases we should speak more rationally did we 
substitute therefore for but. He is a genius, therefore he 
is whimsical ; and the like. 

It is the fault of the present age, owing to the freer 
commerce that different ranks and professions now en- 
joy with each other, that characters are not marked 
with sufficient strength : the several classes run too 
much into one another. We have fewer pedants, it is 
true, but we have fewer striking originals. Every one 



14 AGAINST INCONSISTENCY. 

is expected to have such a tincture of general knowl- 
edge as is incompatible with going deep into any sci- 
ence ; and such a conformity to fashionable manners, 
as checks the free workings of the ruling passion, and 
gives an insipid sameness to the face of society, under 
the idea of polish and regularity. 

There is a cast of manners peculiar and becoming to 
each age, sex, and profession ; one, therefore, should 
not throw out illiberal and common-place censures 
against another. Each is perfect in its kind, — a woman 
as a woman ; a tradesman as a tradesman. We are 
often hurt by a brutality and sluggish conceptions of 
the vulgar ; not considering that some there must be, 
to be hewers of wood and drawers of water, and that 
cultivated genius, or even any great refinement and 
delicacy in their moral feelings, would be a real mis- 
fortune to them. 

Let us then study the philosophy of the human 
mind. The man who is master of this science, will 
know what to expect from every one. From this man, 
wise advice ; from that, cordial sympathy ; from an- 
other, casual entertainment. The passions and inclina- 
tions of others are his tools, which he can use with as 
much precision as he would the mechanical powers ; 
and he can as readily make allowance for the workings 
of vanity, or the bias of self-interest in his friends, as 
for the power of friction, or the irregularities of the 
needle. 



TO-MORROW. 

See where the falling day 

In silence steals away 
Behind the western hills withdrawn ; 
Her fires are quenched, her beauty fled, 
While blushes all her face o'erspread, 
As conscious she had ill fulfilled 

The promise of the dawn. 

Another morning soon shall rise, 
Another day salute our eyes, 
As smiling and as fair as she, 
And make as many promises ; 

But do not thou 

The tale believe, 

They're sisters all, 

And all deceive. 



RIDDLE. 



From rosy bowers we issue forth, 
From east to west, from south to north, 
Unseen, unfelt, by night, by day, 
Abroad we take our airy way : 
We foster love and kindle strife, 
The bitter and the sweet of life : 
Piercing and sharp, we wound like steel ; 
Now, smooth as oil, those wounds we heal 
Not strings of pearl are valued more, 
Or gems enchased in golden ore ; 
Yet thousands of us every day, 
Worthless and vile are thrown away. 
Ye wise, secure with bars of brass 
The double doors through which we pass ; 
For, once escaped, back to our cell 
No human art can us compel. 



ON EDUCATION. 



The other day I paid a visit to a gentleman with 
whom, though greatly my superior in fortune, I have 
long been in habits of an easy intimacy. He rose in 
the world by honorable industry ; and married, rather 
late in life, a lady to whom he had been long attached, 
and in whom centered the wealth of several ^expiring 
families. Their earnest wish for children was not 
immediately gratified. At length they were made 
happy by a son, who, from the moment he was born, 
engrossed all their care and attention. — My friend 
received me in his library, where I found him busied in 
turning over books of education, of which he had col- 
lected all that were worthy notice, from Xenophon to 
Locke, and from Locke to Catherine Macauley. As 
he knows I have been engaged in the business of 
instruction, he did me the honor to consult me on the 
subject of his researches, hoping, he said, that, out of 
all the systems before him, we should be able to form 
a plan equally complete and comprehensive ; it being 
the determination of both himself and his lady to 
choose the best that could be had, and to spare neither 
pains nor expense in making their child all that was 
great and good. I gave him my thoughts with the 
utmost freedom, and after I returned home, threw 
upon paper the observations which had occurred to 
me. 

The first thing to be considered, with respect to 
education, is the object of it. This appears to me to 
have been generally misunderstood. Education, in 
its largest sense, is a thing of great scope and extent. 



ON EDUCATION. 17 

It includes the whole process by which a human being 
is formed to be what he is, in habits, principles, and 
cultivation of every kind. But of this, a very small 
part is in the power even of the parent himself; a 
smaller still can be directed by purchased tuition of 
any kind. You engage for your child masters and 
tutors at large salaries ; and you do well, for they are 
competent to instruct him : they will give him the 
means, at least, of acquiring science and accomplish- 
ments ; but in the business of education, properly so 
called, they can do little for you. Do you ask, then, 
what will educate your son ? Your example will edu- 
cate him ; your conversation with your friends ; the 
business he sees you transact ; the likings and dislikings 
you express ; these will educate him ; — the society 
you live in will educate him ; — your domestics will 
educate him ; above all, your rank and situation in life, 
your house, your table, your pleasure-grounds, your 
hounds, and your stables will educate him. It is not 
in your power to withdraw him from the continual 
influence of these things, except you were to withdraw 
yourself from them also. You speak of beginning the 
education of your son. The moment he was able to 
form an idea his education was already begun; the 
education of circumstances — insensible education — 
which, like insensible perspiration, is of more constant 
and powerful effect, and of infinitely more consequence 
to the habit, than that which is direct and apparent. 
This education goes on at every instant of time ; it goes 
on like time ; you can neither stop it nor turn its 
course. What these have a tendency to make your 
child, that he will be. Maxims and documents are 
good precisely till they are tried, and no longer ; they 
will teach him to talk, and nothing more. The circiwi- 
stances in which your son is placed will be even more 
prevalent than your example ; and you have no right 
to expect him to become what you yourself are, but by 



1 8 ON EDUCATION. 

the same means. You, that have toiled during youth 
to set your son upon higher ground, and to enable him 
to begin where you left off, do not expect that son to 
be what you were, — diligent, modest, active, simple in 
his tastes, fertile in resources. You have put him 
under quite a different master. Poverty educated you \ 
wealth will educate him. You cannot suppose the 
result will be the same. You must not even expect 
that he will be what you now are ; for though relaxed 
perhaps from the severity of your frugal habits, you 
still derive advantage from having formed them ; and, 
in your heart, you like plain dinners, and early hours, 
and old friends, whenever your fortune will permit you 
to enjoy them. But it will not be so with your son : 
his tastes will be formed by your present situation, and 
in no degree by your former one. But I take great 
care, you will say, to counteract these tendencies, and 
to bring him up in hardy and simple manners ; I know 
their value, and am resolved that he shall acquire no 
other. Yes, you make him hardy ; that is to say, you 
take a country-house in a good air, and make him run, 
well clothed and carefully attended, for, it may be, an 
hour in a clear, frosty winter's day upon your gravelled 
terrace ; or perhaps you take the puny shivering infant 
from his warm bed, and dip him in an icy cold bath, — 
and you think you have done great matters. And so you 
have ; you have done all you can. But you were suf- 
fered to run abroad half the day on a bleak heath, in 
weather fit and unfit, wading barefoot through dirty 
ponds, sometimes losing your way benighted, scram- 
bling over hedges, climbing trees, in perils every hour 
both of life and limb. Your life was of very little 
consequence to any one ; even your parents, encum- 
bered with a numerous family, had little time to indulge 
the softnesses of affection, or the solicitude of anxiety ; 
and to every one else it was of no consequence at 
all. It is not possible for you, it would not even be 



ON EDUCATION. 19 

right for you, in your present situation, to pay no more 
attention to your child than was paid to you. In these 
mimic experiments of education, there is always some- 
thing which distinguishes them from reality ; some weak 
part left unfortified, for the arrows of misfortune to find 
their way into. Achilles was a young nobleman, dios 
AchilleuSy and therefore, though he had Chiron for his 
tutor, there was one foot left undipped. You may 
throw by Rousseau ; your parents practised without 
having read it ; you may read, but imperious circum- 
stances forbid you the practice of it. 

You are sensible of the advantages of simplicity of 
diet ; and you make a point of restricting that of your 
child to the plainest food, for you are resolved that he 
shall not be nice. But this plain food is of the choicest 
quality, prepared by your own cook ; his fruit is ripened 
from your walls ; his cloth, his glasses, all the accom- 
paniments of the table, are such as are only met with 
in families of opulence : the very servants who attend 
him are neat, well dressed, and have a certain air of 
fashion. You may call this simplicity ; but I say he 
will be nice, — for it is a kind of simplicity which 
only wealth can attain to, and which will subject him 
to be disgusted at all common tables. Besides, he 
will from time to time partake of those delicacies 
which your table abounds with ; you yourself will give 
him of them occasionally ; you would be unkind if you 
did not : your servants, if good-natured, will do the 
same. Do you think you can keep the full stream of 
luxury running by his lips, and he not taste of it ? Vain 
imagination ! 

I would not be understood to inveigh against wealth, 
or against the enjoyments of it ; they are real enjoy- 
ments, and allied to many elegancies in manners and 
in taste ; — I only wish to prevent unprofitable pains 
and inconsistent expectations. 

You are sensible of the benefit of early rising ; and 



20 ON EDUCATION. 

you may, if you please, make it a point that your 
daughter shall retire with her governess, and your son 
with his tutor, at the hour when you are preparing to 
see company. But their sleep, in the first place, will 
not be so sweet and undisturbed amidst the rattle of 
carriages, and the glare of tapers glancing through the 
rooms, as that of the village child in his quiet cottage, 
protected by silence and darkness ; and moreover, 
you may depend upon it, that, as the coercive power 
of education is laid aside, they will in a few months 
slide into the habitudes of the rest of the family, 
whose hours are determined by their company and 
situation in life. You have, however, done good, as 
far as it goes ; it is something gained, to defer perni- 
cious habits, if we cannot prevent them. 

There is nothing which has so little share in educa- 
tion as direct precept. To be convinced of this, we 
need only reflect that there is no one point we labor 
more to establish with children, than that of their 
speaking truth; and there is not any in which we 
succeed worse. And why ? Because children readily 
see we have an interest in it. Their speaking truth is 
used by us as an engine of government — " Tell me, 
my dear child, when you have broken anything, and I 
will not be angry with you." " Thank you for nothing," 
says the child ; " if . I prevent you from finding it out, 
I am sure you will not be angry : " and nine times 
out of ten he can prevent it. He knows that, in the 
common intercourses of life, you tell a thousand false- 
hoods. But these are necessary lies, on important 
occasions. 

Your child is the best judge how much occasion he 
has to tell a lie : he may have as great occasion for it, 
as you have to conceal a bad piece of news from a 
sick friend, or to hide your vexation from an unwel- 
come visitor. That authority which extends its claims 
over every action, and even every thought, which in- 



ON EDUCATION 21 

sists upon an answer to every interrogation, however 
indiscreet or oppressive to the feelings, will, in young 
or old, produce falsehood ; or, if in some few instances 
the deeply imbibed fear of future and unknown punish- 
ment should restrain from direct falsehood, it will pro- 
duce a habit of dissimulation, which is still worse. 
The child, the slave, or the subject, who, on proper 
occasions, may not say, "I do not choose to tell," will 
certainly, by the circumstances in which you place him, 
be driven to have recourse to deceit, even should he 
not be countenanced by your example. 

I do not mean to assert that sentiments inculcated 
in education have no influence ; — they have much, 
though not the most : but it is the sentiments we let 
drop occasionally, the conversation they overhear when 
playing unnoticed in a corner of the room, which has 
an effect upon children ; and not what is addressed 
directly to them in the tone of exhortation. If you 
would know precisely the effect these set discourses 
have upon your child, be pleased to reflect upon that 
which a discourse from the pulpit, which you have 
reason to think merely professional, has upon you. 
Children have almost an intuitive discernment between 
the maxims you bring forward for their use, and those 
by which you direct your own conduct. Be as cun- 
ning as you will, they are always more cunning than 
you. Every child knows whom his father and mother 
love and see with pleasure, and whom they dislike ; 
for whom they think themselves obliged to set out 
their best plate and china; whom they think it an 
honor to visit, and upon whom they confer honor by 
admitting them to their company. " Respect nothing 
so much as virtue," says Eugenio to his son ; " virtue 
and talents are the only grounds of distinction." The 
child presently has occasion to inquire why his father 
pulls off his hat to some people and not to others ; he 
is told, that outward respect must be proportioned to 



22 ON EDUCATION. 

different stations in life. This is a little difficult of 
comprehension : however, by dint of explanation, he 
gets over it tolerably well. But he sees his father's 
house in the bustle and hurry of preparation ; com- 
mon business laid aside, everybody in movement, an 
unusual anxiety to please and to shine. Nobody is at 
leisure to receive his caresses or attend to his ques- 
tions ; his lessons are interrupted, his hours deranged. 

At length a guest arrives : it is my Lord , whom 

he has heard you speak of twenty times as one of the 
most worthless characters upon earth. Your child, 
Eugenio, has received a lesson of education. Resume, 
if you will, your systems of morality on the morrow, 
you will in vain attempt to eradicate it. " You expect 
company, mamma, must I be dressed to-day? " " No, 
it is only good Mrs. Such-a-one." Your child has 
received a lesson of education, one which he well un- 
derstands, and will long remember. You have sent 
your child to a public school; but to secure his 
morals against the vice which you too justly apprehend 
abounds there, you have given him a private tutor, a 
man of strict morals and religion. He may help him 
to prepare his tasks ; but do you imagine it will be in 
his power to form his mind? His school-fellows, the 
allowance you give him, the manners of the age and of 
the place, will do that ; and not the lectures which he 
is obliged to hear. If these are different from what 
you yourself experienced, you must not be surprised to 
see him gradually recede from the principles, civil and 
religious, which you hold, and break off from your con- 
nections, and adopt manners different from your own. 
This is remarkably exemplified amongst those of the 
Dissenters who have risen to wealth and consequence. 
I believe it would be difficult to find an instance of 
families, who for three generations have kept their car- 
riage and continued Dissenters. 

Education, it is often observed, is an expensive 



ON EDUCATION. 23 

thing. It is so; but the paying for lessons is the 
smallest part of the cost. If you would go to the 
price of having your son a worthy man, you must be 
so yourself; your friends, your servants, your company 
must be all of that stamp. Suppose this to be the 
case, much is done : but there will remain circum- 
stances, which perhaps you cannot alter, that will still 
have their effect. Do you wish him to love simplicity ? 
Would you be content to lay down your coach, to 
drop your title? Where is the parent who would do 
this to educate his son ? You carry him to the work- 
shops of artisans, and show him different machines 
and fabrics, to awaken his ingenuity. The necessity 
of getting his bread would awaken it much more 
effectually. The single circumstance of having a for- 
tune to get, or a fortune to spend, will probably operate 
more strongly upon his mind, not only than your pre- 
cepts, but even than your example. You wish your 
child to be modest and unassuming; you are so, 
perhaps, yourself, — and you pay liberally a preceptor 
for giving him lessons of humility. You do not per- 
ceive, that the very circumstance' of having a man of 
letters and accomplishments retained about his person, 
for his sole advantage, tends more forcibly to inspire 
him with an idea of self-consequence, than all the les- 
sons he can give him to repress it. "Why do not you 
look sad, you rascal? " says the undertaker to his man, 
in the play of The Funeral ; " I give you I know not 
how much money for looking sad, and the more I give 
you, the gladder I think you are." So will it be with 
the wealthy heir. The lectures that are given him on 
condescension and affability, only prove to him upon 
how much higher ground he stands than those about 
him ; and the very pains that are taken with his moral 
character will make him proud, by showing him how 
much he is the object of attention. You cannot help 
these things. Your servants, out of respect to you, will 



24 ON EDUCATION. 

bear with his petulance ; your company, out of respect 
to you, will forbear to check his impatience ; and you 
yourself, if he is clever, will repeat his observations. 

In the exploded doctrine of sympathies, you are di- 
rected, if you have cut your finger, to let that alone, 
and put your plaster upon the knife. This is very bad 
doctrine, I must confess, in philosophy ; but very good 
in morals. Is a man luxurious, self-indulgent ? do not 
apply your physic of the soul to him, but cure his for- 
tune. Is he haughty? cure his rank, his title. Is he 
vulgar? cure his company. Is he diffident or mean- 
spirited? cure his poverty, give him consequence. 
But these prescriptions go far beyond the family recipes 
of education. 

What then is the result ? In the first place, that we 
should contract our ideas of education, and expect no 
more from it than it is able to perform. It can give in- 
struction. There will always be an essential difference 
between a human being cultivated and uncultivated. 
Education can provide proper instructors in the vari- 
ous arts and sciences, and portion out to the best ad- 
vantage those precious hours of youth which never will 
return. It can likewise give, in a great degree, per- 
sonal habits ; and even if these should afterwards give 
way under the influence of contrary circumstances, 
your child will feel the good effects of them ; for the 
later and the less will he go into what is wrong. Let 
us also be assured, that the business of education, 
properly so called, is not transferable. You may en- 
gage masters to instruct your child in this or the other 
accomplishment, but you must educate him yourself. 
You not only ought to do it, but you must do it, 
whether you intend it or no. As education is a thing 
necessary for all, — for the poor and for the rich, for the 
illiterate as well as for the learned, — Providence has not 
made it dependent upon systems uncertain, operose, 
and difficult of investigation. It is not necessary, with 



ON EDUCATION 25 

Rousseau or Madame de Genlis, to devote to the edu- 
cation of one child the talents and the time of a num- 
ber of grown men ; to surround him with an artificial 
world ; and to counteract, by maxims, the natural ten- 
dencies of the situation he is placed in, in society. 
Every one has time to educate his child : the poor man 
educates him while working in his cottage — the man 
of business while employed in his counting-house. 

Do we see a father who is diligent in his profession, 
domestic in his habits, whose house is the resort of 
well-informed, intelligent people — a mother whose 
time is usefully filled, whose attention to her duties se- 
cures esteem, and whose amiable manners attract af- 
fection? Do not be solicitous, respectable couple, 
about the moral education of your offspring ! do not be 
uneasy because you cannot surround them with the 
apparatus of books and systems ; or fancy you must 
retire from the world to devote yourselves to their im- 
provement. In your world they are brought up much 
better than they could be under any plan of factitious 
education which you could provide for them : they will 
imbibe affection from your caresses ; taste from your 
conversation ; urbanity from the commerce of your so- 
ciety ; and mutual love from your example. Do not 
regret that you are not rich enough to provide tutors 
and governors, to watch his steps with sedulous and 
servile anxiety, and furnish him with maxims it is mor- 
ally impossible he should act upon when grown up. 
Do not you see how seldom this over-culture produces 
its effect, and how many shining and excellent charac- 
ters start up every day, from the bosom of obscurity, 
with scarcely any care at all ? 

Are children then to be neglected ? Surely not : but 
having given them the instruction and accomplishments 
which their situation in life requires, let us reject super- 
fluous solicitude, and trust that their characters will form 
themselves from the spontaneous influence of good ex- 



26 ON EDUCATION. 

amples, and circumstances which impel them to useful 
action. 

But the education of your house, important as it is, 
is only a part of a more comprehensive system. Provi- 
dence takes your child where you leave him. Provi- 
dence continues his education upon a larger scale, and 
by a process which includes means far more efficacious. 
Has your son entered the world at eighteen, opinion- 
ated, haughty, rash, inclined to dissipation? Do not 
despair; he may yet be cured of these faults, if it 
pleases Heaven. There are remedies which you could 
not persuade yourself to use, if they were in your power, 
and which are specific in cases of this kind. How often 
do we see the presumptuous, giddy youth, changed 
into the wise counsellor, the considerate, steady friend ! 
How often the thoughtless, gay girl, into the sober wife, 
the affectionate mother ! Faded beauty, humbled self- 
consequence, disappointed ambition, loss of fortune, — 
this is the rough physic provided by Providence to 
meliorate the temper, to correct the offensive petulan- 
cies of youth, and bring out all the energies of the 
finished character. Afflictions soften the proud ; diffi- 
culties push forward the ingenious ; successful industry 
gives consequence and credit, and develops a thou- 
sand latent good qualities. There is no malady of the 
mind so inveterate, which this education of events is 
not calculated to cure, if life were long enough ; and 
shall we not hope, that He, in whose hand are all the 
remedial processes of nature, will renew the discipline 
in another state, and finish the imperfect man? 

States are educated as individuals — by circum- 
stances : the prophet may cry aloud, and spare not ; 
the philosopher may descant on morals ; eloquence 
may exhaust itself in invective against the vices of the 
age : these vices will certainly follow certain states of 
poverty or riches, ignorance or high civilization. But 
what these gentle alteratives fail of doing, may be ac- 



ON PREJUDICE. 27 

complished by an unsuccessful war, a loss of trade, or 
any of those great calamities by which it pleases Provi- 
dence to speak to a nation in such language as will be 
heard, If, as a nation, we would be cured of pride, it 
must be by mortification ; if of luxury, by a national 
bankruptcy, perhaps ; if of injustice, or the spirit of 
domination, by a loss of national consequence. In 
comparison with these strong remedies, a fast, or a ser- 
mon, are prescriptions of very little efficacy. 



ON PREJUDICE. 

It is to speculative people, fond of novel doctrines, 
and who, by accustoming themselves to make the most 
fundamental truths the subject of discussion, have di- 
vested their minds of that reverence which is generally 
felt for opinions and practices of long standing, that 
the world is ever to look for its improvement or refor- 
mation. But it is also these speculatists who introduce 
into it absurdities and errors, more gross than any 
which have been established by that common consent 
of numerous individuals which opinions long acted 
upon must have required for their basis. For systems 
of the latter class must at least possess one property, — 
that of being practicable : and there is likewise a pre- 
sumption that they are, or at least originally were, use- 
ful ; whereas the opinions of the speculatist may turn 
out to be utterly incongruous and eccentric. The 
speculatist may invent machines which it is impossible 
to put in action, or which, when put in action, may 
possess the tremendous power of tearing up society by 
the roots. Like the chemist, he is not sure in the mo- 
ment of projection whether he shall blow up his own 



28 ON PREJUDICE. 

dwelling and that of his neighbor, or whether he shall 
be rewarded with a discovery which will secure the 
health and prolong the existence of future generations. 
It becomes us, therefore, to examine with peculiar care 
those maxims which, under the appearance of follow- 
ing a closer train of reasoning, militate against the usual 
practices or genuine feelings of mankind. No subject 
has been more canvassed than education. With regard 
to that important object there is a maxim avowed by 
many sensible people, which seems to me to deserve 
particular investigation. " Give your child," it is said, 
" no prejudices : let reason be the only foundation of 
his opinions ; where he cannot reason, let him suspend 
his belief. Let your great care be, that as he grows up 
he has nothing to unlearn ; and never make use of au- 
thority in matters of opinion, for authority is no test of 
truth." The maxim sounds well, and flatters perhaps 
the secret pride of man, in supposing him more the 
creature of reason than he really is : but, I suspect, on 
examination we shall find it exceedingly fallacious. We 
must first consider what a prejudice is. A prejudice is 
a sentiment in favor or disfavor of any person, practice, 
or opinion, previous to and independent of examining 
their merits by reason and investigation. Prejudice is 
prejudging ; that is, judging previously to evidence. It 
is therefore sufficiently apparent, that no philosophical 
belief can. be founded on mere prejudice ; because it is 
the business of philosophy to go deep into the nature 
and properties of things : nor can it be allowable for 
those to indulge prejudice who aspire to lead the pub- 
lic opinion ; those to whom the high office is appointed 
of sifting truth from error, of canvassing the claims of 
different systems, of exploding old and introducing new 
tenets. These must investigate, with a kind of auda- 
cious boldness, every subject that comes before them ; 
these, neither impressed with awe for all that mankind 
have been taught to reverence, nor swayed by affection 



ON PREJUDICE. 29 

for whatever the sympathies of our nature incline us to 
love, must hold the balance with a severe and steady 
hand, while they are weighing the doubtful scale of 
probabilities ; and with a stoical apathy of mind, yield 
their assent to nothing but a preponderancy of evi- 
dence. But is this an office for a child? Is it an of- 
fice for more than one or two men in a century ? And 
is it desirable that a child should grow up without 
opinions to regulate his conduct, till he is able to form 
them fairly by the exercise of his own abilities Such 
an exercise requires at least the sober period of ma- 
tured reason : reason not only sharpened by argumen- 
tative discussion, but informed by experience. The 
most sprightly child can only possess the former : for 
let it be remembered, that though the reasoning pow- 
ers put forth pretty early in life, the faculty of using 
them to effect does not come till much later. The first 
efforts of a child in reasoning resemble those quick 
and desultory motions by which he gains the play of 
his limbs ; they show agility and grace, they are pleas- 
ing to look at, and necessary for the gradual acquire- 
ment of his bodily powers ; but his joints must be knit 
into more firmness, and his movements regulated with 
more precision, before he is capable of useful labor and 
manly exertion. A reasoning child is not yet a reasona- 
ble being. There is great propriety in the legal phrase- 
ology which expresses maturity, not by having arrived 
at the possession of reason, but of that power, the late 
result of information, thought, and experience — dis- 
cretion, which alone teaches, with regard to reason, its 
powers, its limits, and its use. This the child of the 
most sprightly parts cannot have ; and therefore his at- 
tempts at reasoning, whatever acuteness they may 
show, and how much soever they may please a parent 
with the early promise of future excellence, are of no 
account whatever in the sober search after truth. Be- 
sides, taking it for granted (which however is utterly 



30 ON PREJUDICE. 

impossible) that a youth could be brought up to the 
age of fifteen or sixteen without prejudice in favor of 
any opinions whatever, and that he is then set to ex- 
amining for himself some important proposition, — 
how is he to set about it ? Who is to recommend books 
to him? Who is to give him the previous information 
necessary to comprehend the question ? Who is to tell 
him whether or no it is important? Whoever does 
these, will infallibly lay a bias upon his mind, according 
to the ideas he himself has received upon the subject. 
Let us suppose the point in debate was the preference 
between the Roman Catholic and Protestant modes of 
religion. Can a youth in a Protestant country, born of 
Protestant parents, with access, probably, to hardly a 
single controversial book on the Roman Catholic side 
of the question — can such a one study the subject 
without prejudice? His knowledge of history, if he 
has such knowledge, must, according to the books he 
has read, have already given him a prejudice on the 
one side or the other ; so must the occasional conver- 
sation he has been witness to, the appellations he has 
heard used, the tone of voice with which he has heard 
the words monk or priest pronounced, and a thousand 
other evanescent circumstances. It is likewise to be 
observed, that every question of any weight and im- 
portance has numerous dependencies and points of 
connection with other subjects, which make it impossi- 
ble to enter upon the consideration of it without a great 
variety of previous knowledge. There is no object of 
investigation perfectly insulated ; — we must not con- 
ceive therefore, of a man's sitting down to it with a 
mind perfectly new and untutored : he must have 
passed more or less through a course of studies ; and, 
according to the color of those studies, his mind will 
have received a tincture, — that is, a prejudice. But 
it is, in truth, the most absurd of all suppositions, that 
a human being can be educated, or even nourished 



ON PREJUDICE. 31 

and brought up, without imbibing numberless preju- 
dices from every thing which passes around him. 
A child cannot learn the signification of words without 
receiving ideas along with them ; he cannot be im- 
pressed with affection to his parents and those about 
him, without conceiving a predilection for their tastes, 
opinions, and practices. He forms numberless asso- 
ciations of pain or pleasure, and every association 
begets a prejudice ; he sees objects from a particular 
spot, ancl his views of things are contracted or ex- 
tended according to his position in society. As no two 
individuals can have the same horizon, so neither can 
any two have the same associations ; and different 
associations will produce different opinions, as neces- 
sarily as, by the laws of perspective, different distances 
will produce different appearances of visible objects. 
Let us confess a truth, humiliating perhaps to human 
pride ; — a very small part only of the opinions of the 
coolest philosopher are the result of fair reasoning ; 
the rest are formed by his education, his temperament, 
by the age in which he lives, by trains of thought di- 
rected to a particular track through some accidental 
association — in short, by prejudice. But why, after 
all, should we wish to bring up children without pre- 
judices? A child has occasion to act, long before he 
can reason. Shall we leave him destitute of all the 
principles that should regulate his conduct, till he can 
discover them by the strength of his own genius ? If it 
were possible that one whole generation could be 
brought up without prejudices, the world must return 
to the infancy of knowledge, and all the beautiful 
fabric which has been built up by successive genera- 
tions, must be begun again from the very foundation. 
Your child has a claim to the advantage of your expe- 
rience, which it would be cruel and unjust to deprive 
him of. Will any father say to his son, " My dear child, 
you are entering upon a world full of intricate and per- 



32 ON PREJUDICE. 

plexed paths, in which many miss their way, to their 
final misery and ruin. Amidst many false systems, 
and much vain science, there is also some true knowl- 
edge ; there is a right path : I believe I know it, for I 
have the advantage of years and experience, but I will 
instil no prejudices into your mind ; I shall therefore 
leave you to find it out as you can ; whether your abil- 
ities are great or small, you must take the chance of 
them. There are various systems in morals ; I have 
examined and found some of a good others of a bad 
tendency. There is such a thing as religion ; many 
people think it the most important concern of life : 
perhaps I am one of them : perhaps I have chosen 
from amidst the various systems of belief, — many of 
which are extremely absurd, and some even perni- 
cious, — that which I cherish as the guide of my life, 
my comfort in all my sorrows, and the foundation of 
my dearest hopes : but far be it from me to influence 
you in any manner to receive it ; when you are grown 
up, you must read all the books upon these subjects 
which you can lay your hands on, for neither in the 
choice of these would I presume to prejudice your 
mind : converse with all who pretend to any opinions 
upon the subject ; and whatever happens to be the re- 
sult, you must abide by it. In the mean time, con- 
cerning these important objects you must keep your 
mind in a perfect equilibrium. It is true you want 
these principles more now than you can do at any other 
period of your life ; but I had rather you never had 
them at all than that you should not come fairly by 
them." Should we commend the wisdom or the kind- 
ness of such a parent ? The parent will perhaps plead 
in his behalf that it is by no means his intention to leave 
the mind of his child in the uncultivated state I have 
supposed. As soon as his understanding begins to 
open, he means to discuss with him those propositions 
on which he wishes him to form an opinion. He will 



ON PREJUDICE. 33 

make him read the best books on the subject, and by- 
free conversation and explaining the arguments on both 
sides, he does not doubt but the youth will soon be en- 
abled to judge satisfactorily for himself. I have no 
objection to make against this mode of proceeding : as 
a mode of instruction, it is certainly a very good one : 
but he must know little of human nature, who thinks 
that after this process the youth will be really in a ca- 
pacity of judging for himself, or that he is less under the 
dominion of prejudice than if he had received the same 
truths from the mere authority of his parent ; for most 
assuredly the arguments on either side will not have 
been set before him with equal strength or with equal 
warmth. The persuasive tone, the glowing language, 
the triumphant retort, will all be reserved for the side on 
which the parent has formed his own conclusions. It 
cannot be otherwise ; he cannot be convinced himself of 
what he thinks a truth, without wishing to convey that 
conviction, nor without thinking all that can be urged on 
the other side weak and futile. He cannot in a mat- 
ter of importance neutralize his feelings : perfect impar- 
tiality can be the result only of indifference. He does 
not perhaps seem to dictate, but he wishes gently to 
guide his pupil ; and that wish is seldom disappointed. 
The child adopts the opinion of his parent, and seems 
to himself to have adopted it from the decisions of his 
own judgment ; but all these reasonings must be gone 
over again, and these opinions undergo a fiery ordeal, 
if ever he comes really to think and determine for 
himself, 

The fact is, that no man, whatever his system may 
be, refrains from instilling prejudices into his child in 
any matter he has much at heart. Take a disciple of 
Rousseau, who contends that it would be very per- 
nicious to give his son any ideas of a Deity till he is 
of an age to read Clarke or Leibnitz, and ask him if 
he waits so long to impress on his mind the sentiments 

3 



34 ON PREJUDICE. 

of patriotism — the civic affection. Oh no ! you will 
find his little heart is early taught to beat at the very 
name of liberty, and that, long before he is capable of 
forming a single political idea, he has entered with 
warmth into all the party sentiments and connections 
of his parent. He learns to love and hate, to venerate 
or despise, by rote ; and he soon acquires decided 
opinions, of the real ground of which he can know ab- 
solutely nothing. Are not ideas of female honor and 
decorum impressed first as prejudices ; and would any 
parent wish they should be so much as canvassed till 
the most settled habits of propriety have rendered it 
safe to do it? In teaching first by prejudice that 
which is afterwards to be proved, we do but follow 
Nature. Instincts are prejudices she gives us : we 
follow them implicitly, and they lead us right ; but it 
is not till long afterwards that reason comes and justi- 
fies them. Why should we scruple to lead a child to 
right opinions in the same way by which Nature leads 
him to right practices ! 

Still it will be urged that man is a rational being, and 
therefore reason is the only true ground of belief, 
and authority is not reason. This point requires a 
little discussion. That he who receives a truth upon 
authority has not a reasonable belief, is in one sense 
true, since he has not drawn it from the result of his 
own inquiries ; but in another it is certainly false, since 
the authority itself may be to him the best of all 
reasons for believing it. There are few men who, from 
the exercise of the best powers of their minds, could 
derive so good a reason for believing a mathematical 
truth as the authority of Sir Isaac Newton. There are 
two principles deeply implanted in the mind of man, 
without which he could never attain knowledge, — 
curiosity, and credulity; the former to lead him to 
make discoveries himself, the latter to dispose him to 
receive knowledge from others. The credulity of a child 



ON PREJUDICE. 35 

to those who cherish him, is in early life unbounded. 
This is one of the most useful instincts he has, and is 
in fact a precious advantage put into the hands of the 
parent for storing his mind with ideas of all kinds. 
Without this principle of assent he could never gain 
even the rudiments of knowledge. He receives it, it 
is true, in the shape of prejudice ; but the prejudice 
itself is founded upon sound reasoning, and conclusive 
though imperfect experiment. He finds himself weak, 
helpless, and ignorant ; he sees in his parent a being of 
knowledge and powers more than his utmost capacity- 
can fathom ; almost a god to him. He has often done 
him good, therefore he believes he loves him ; he finds 
him capable of giving him information upon all the 
subjects he has applied to him about ; his knowledge 
seems unbounded, and his information has led him 
right whenever he has had occasion to try it by actual 
experiment : the child does not draw out his little 
reasonings into a logical form, but this is to him a 
ground of belief that his parent knows every thing, 
and is infallible. Though the proposition is not exactly 
true, it is sufficiently so for him to act upon : and 
when he believes in his parent with implicit faith, he 
believes upon grounds as truly rational as when, in 
after life, he follows the deductions of his own reason. 

But you will say, I wish my son may have nothing 
to unlearn, and therefore I would have him wait to 
form an opinion till he is able to do it on solid grounds. 
And why do you suppose he will have less to unlearn 
if he follows his own reason, than if he followed yours ? 
If he thinks, if he inquires, he will no doubt have a 
great deal to unlearn, whichever course you take with 
him ; but it is better to have some things to unlearn, 
than to have nothing learnt. Do you hold your own 
opinions so loosely, so hesitatingly, as not to think them 
safer to abide by than the first results of his stammering 
reason? Are there no truths to learn so indubitable as 



2,6 ON PREJUDICE. 

to be without fear of their not approving themselves 
to his mature and well-directed judgment? Are there 
none you esteem so useful as to feel anxious that he 
be put in possession of them ? We are solicitous not 
only to put our children in a capacity of acquiring 
their daily bread, but to bequeath to them riches which 
they may receive as an inheritance. Have you no 
mental wealth you wish to transmit, no stock of ideas 
he may begin with, instead of drawing them all from 
the labor of his own brain ? If, moreover, your son 
should not adopt your prejudices, he will certainly adopt 
those of other people ; or, if on subjects of high 
interest he could be kept totally indifferent, the conse- 
quence would be, that he would conceive either that 
such matters were not worth the trouble of inquiry, or 
that nothing satisfactory was to be learnt about them : 
for there are negative prejudices as well as positive. 

Let parents, therefore, not scruple to use the power 
God and Nature have put into their hands for the 
advantage of their offspring. Let them not fear to 
impress them with prejudices for whatever is fair and 
honorable in action — whatever is useful and important 
in systematic truth. Let such prejudices be wrought 
into the very texture of the soul. Such truths let them 
appear to know by intuition. Let the child never 
remember the period when he did not know them. 
Instead of sending him to that cold and hesitating 
belief which is founded on the painful and uncertain 
consequences of late investigation, let his conviction 
of all the truths you deem important be mixed up with 
every warm affection of his nature, and identified with 
his most cherished recollections ; the time will come 
soon enough when his confidence in you will have 
received a check. The growth of his own reason and 
the development of his powers will lead him with a 
sudden impetus to examine every thing, to canvass 
every thing, to suspect every thing. If he finds, as he 



ON PREJUDICE. 37 

certainly will find, the results of his reasoning different 
in some respects from those you have given him, far 
from being now disposed to receive your assertions as 
proofs, he will rather feel disinclined to any opinion 
you profess, and struggle to free himself from the net 
you have woven about him. 

The calm repose of his mind is broken, the placid 
lake is become turbid, and reflects distorted and 
broken images of things ; but be not you alarmed at 
the new workings of his thoughts, — it is the angel of 
reason which descends and troubles the waters. To 
endeavor to influence by authority, would be as useless 
now as it was salutary before. Lie by in silence, and 
wait the result. Do not expect the mind of your son 
is to resemble yours, as your figure is reflected by the 
image in the glass ; he was formed, like you, to use 
his own judgment, and he claims the high privilege 
of his nature. His reason is mature, his mind must 
now form itself. Happy must you esteem yourself, 
if amidst all lesser differences of opinion, and the 
wreck of many of your favorite ideas, he still preserves 
those radical and primary truths which are essential 
to his happiness, and which different trains of thought 
and opposite modes of investigation will very often 
equally lead to. 

Let it be well remembered that we have only been 
recommending those prejudices which go before reason, 
not those which are contrary to it. To endeavor to 
make children, or others over whom we have influence, 
receive systems which we do not believe, merely be- 
cause it is convenient to ourselves that they should 
believe them, though a very fashionable practice, 
makes no part of the discipline we plead for. These 
are not prejudices, but impositions. We may also grant 
that nothing should be received as a prejudice which 
can be easily made the subject of experiment. A child 
may be allowed to find out for himself that boiling 



38 ON PREJUDICE. 

water will scald his fingers, and mustard bite his tongue ; 
but he must be prejudiced against ratsbane, because the 
experiment would be too costly. In like manner it 
may do him good to have experienced that little in- 
stances of inattention or perverseness draw upon him the 
displeasure of his parent ; but that profligacy is attended 
with loss of character, is a truth one would rather wish 
him to take upon trust. 

There is no occasion to inculcate by prejudices those 
truths which it is of no importance for us to know, till 
our powers are able to investigate them. Thus the meta- 
physical questions of space and time, necessity and 
free-will, and a thousand others, may safely be left 
for that age which delights in such discussions. They 
have no connection with conduct ; and none have any 
business with them at all, but those who are able by 
such studies to exercise and sharpen their mental pow- 
ers ; but it is not so with those truths on which our well- 
being depends ; these must be taught to all, not only 
before they can reason upon them, but independently of 
the consideration whether they will ever be able to rea- 
son upon them as long as they live. What has hith- 
erto been said, relates only to instilling prejudices into 
others ; how far a man is to allow them in himself, or, 
as a celebrated writer expresses it, to cherish them, is a 
different question, on which perhaps I may some time 
offer my thoughts. In the mean time I cannot help 
concluding, that to reject the influence of prejudice in 
education is itself one of the most unreasonable of 
prejudices. 



THE BABY-HOUSE. 



Dear Agatha, I give you joy, 

And much admire your pretty toy, — 

A mansion in itself complete, 

And fitted to give guests a treat ; 

With couch and table, chest and chair, 

The bed or supper to prepare. 

We almost wish to change ourselves 

To fairy forms of tripping elves, 

To press the velvet couch, and eat 

From tiny cups the sugared meat. 

I much suspect that many a sprite 

Inhabits it at dead of night ; 

That, as they dance, the listening ear 

The pat of fairy feet might hear ; 

That, just as you have said your prayers, 

They hurry-scurry down the stairs : 

And you '11 do well to try to find 

Tester or ring they 've left behind. 

But think not, Agatha, you own 
That toy, a Baby-house, alone ; 
For many a sumptuous one is found 
To press an ampler space of ground. 
The broad-based Pyramid that stands 
Casting its shade in distant lands, 
Which asked some mighty nation's toil 
With mountain-weight to press the soil, 
And there has raised its head sublime 
Through eras of uncounted time. — 
Its use if asked, 't is only said, 
A Baby-house to lodge the dead. 



40 DIALOGUE IN THE SHADES. 

Nor less beneath more genial skies 

The domes of pomp and folly rise, 

Whose sun through diamond windows streams, 

While gems and gold reflect his beams ; 

Where tapestry clothes the storied wall, 

And fountains spout and waters fall. 

The peasant faints beneath his load, 

Nor tastes the grain his hands have sowed, 

While scarce a nation's wealth avails 

To raise thy Baby-house, Versailles. 

And Baby-houses oft appear 

On British ground, of prince or peer ; 

Awhile their stately heads they raise, 

The admiring traveller stops to gaze ; 

He looks again — where are they now ? 

Gone to the hammer or the plough : 

Then trees, the pride of ages, fall, 

And naked stands the pictured wall ; 

And treasured coins from distant lands 

Must feel the touch of sordid hands ; 

And gems, of classic stores the boast, 

Fall to the cry of — Who bids most? 

Then do not, Agatha, repine 

That cheaper Baby-house is thine. 



DIALOGUE IN THE SHADES. 

Clio. — There is no help for it, — they must go. 
The river Lethe is here at hand ; I shall tear them off 
and throw them into the stream. 

Mercury. — Illustrious daughter of Mnemosyne, 
Clio ! the most respected of the Muses, — you seem 
disturbed. What is it that brings us the honor of a 
visit from you in these infernal regions ? 



DIALOGUE IN THE SHADES. 41 

Clio. — You are a god of expedients, Mercury; I 
want to consult you. I am oppressed with the con- 
tinually increasing demands upon me : I have had 
more business for these last twenty years than I have 
often had for two centuries ; and if I had, as old Ho- 
mer says, "a throat of brass and adamantine lungs " I 
could never get through it. And what did he want 
this throat of brass for ? for a paltry list of ships, ca- 
noes rather, which would be laughed at in the Admi- 
ralty Office of London. But I must inform you, Mer- 
cury, that my roll is so full, and I have so many appli- 
cations which cannot in decency be refused, that 
I see no other way than striking oft some hundreds of 
names in order to make room ; and I am come to in- 
form the shades of my determination. 

Mercury. — I believe, Clio, you will do right : and as 
one end of your roll is a little mouldy, no doubt you will 
begin with that ; but the ghosts will raise a great clamor. 

Clio. — I expect no less ; but necessity has no law. 
All the parchment in Pergamus is used up, — my roll 
is long enough to reach from earth to heaven ; it is 
grown quite cumbrous ; it takes a life, as mortals 
reckon lives, to unroll it. 

' Mercury. — Yet consider, Clio, how many of these 
have passed a restless life, and encountered all man- 
ner of dangers, and bled and died only to be placed 
upon your list, — and now to be struck off ! 

Clio. — And committed all manner of crimes, you 
might have added ; — but go they must. Besides, 
they have been sufficiently recompensed. Have they 
not been praised, and sung, and admired for some 
thousands of years ? Let them give place to others : 
What! Have they no conscience? no modesty? 
Would Xerxes, think you, have reason to complain, 
when his parading expeditions have already procured 
him above two thousand years of fame, though a 
Solyman or a Zingis Khan should fill up his place ? 



42 DIALOGUE IN THE SHADES. 

Mercury. — Surely you are not going to blot out 
Xerxes from your list of names ? 

Clio. — I do not say that I am : but that I keep 
him is more for the sake of his antagonists than his 
own. And yet their places might be well supplied 
by the Swiss heroes of Morgarten, or the brave though 
unsuccessful patriot, Aloys Reding. — But pray what 
noise is that at the gate ? 

Mercury. — A number of the shades who have re- 
ceived an intimation of your purpose, and are come 
to remonstrate against it. 

Clio. — In the name of all the gods whom have we 
here ? — Hercules, Theseus, Jason, (Edipus, Bacchus, 
Cadmus, with a bag of dragon's teeth, and a whole 
tribe of strange shadowy figures ! I shall expect to 
see the Centaurs and Lapithae, or Perseus on his fly- 
ing courser. Away with them ; they belong to my 
sisters, not to me; Melpomene will receive them 
gladly. 

Mercury. — You forget, Clio, that Bacchus con- 
quered India. 

Clio. — And had horns like Moses, as Vossius is 
pleased to say. No, Mercury, I will have nothing to 
do with these ; if ever I received them, it was when 
I was young and credulous. — As I have said, let my 
sisters take them ; or let them be celebrated in tales 
for children. 

Mercury. — That will not do, Clio ; children in this 
age read none but wise books : stories of giants and 
dragons are all written for grown-up children now. 

Clio. — Be that as it may, I shall clear my hands 
of them, and of a great many more, I do assure 
you. 

Mercury. — I hope " the tale of Troy divine — ! " 

Clio. — Divine let it be, but my share in it is very 
small ; I recollect furnishing the catalogue. — Mercury, 
I will tell you the truth. When I was young, my 



DIALOGUE IN THE SHADES. 43 

mother (as arrant a gossip as ever breathed) related to 
me a great number of stories : and as in those days 
people could not read or write, I had no better author- 
ity for what I recorded : but after letters were found 
out, and now since the noble invention of printing, — 
why, do you think, Mercury, any one would dare to tell 
lies in print? 

Mercury. — Sometimes, perhaps. I have seen a 
splendid victory in the gazette of one country dwindle 
into an honorable retreat in that of another. 

Clio. — In newspapers, very possibly : but with re- 
gard to myself, when I have time to consider and lay 
things together, I assure you, you may depend upon 
me. — Whom have we in that group which I see in- 
distinctly in a sort of twilight ? 

Mercury. — Very renowned personages ; Ninus, 
Sesostris, Semiramis, Cheops who built the largest 
pyramid. 

Clio. — If Cheops built the largest pyramid, people 
-are welcome to inquire about him at the spot, — room 
must be made. As to Semiramis, tell her her place 
shall be filled up by an empress and a conqueror from 
the shores of the wintry Baltic. 

Mercury. — The renowned Cyrus is approaching 
with a look of confidence, for he is introduced by a 
favorite of yours, the elegant Xenophon. 

Clio. — Is that Cyrus ? Pray desire him to take off 
that dress which Xenophon has given him ; truly I 
took him for a Greek philosopher. I fancy queen 
Tomyris would scarcely recognize him. 

Mercury. — Aspasia hopes, for the honor of her 
sex, that she shall continue to occupy a place among 
those you celebrate. 

Clio. — Tell the mistress of Pericles we can spare 
her without inconvenience : many ladies are to be 
found in modern times who possess her eloquence 
and her talents, with the modesty of a vestal ; and 



44 DIALOGUE IN THE SHADES. 

should a more perfect likeness be required, modern 
times may furnish that also. 

Mercury. — Here are two figures who approach 
you with a very dignified air. 

Solon and Lycurgus. — We present ourselves, di- 
vine Clio, with confidence. We have no fear that 
you should strike from your roll the lawgivers of 
Athens and Sparta. 

Clio. — Most assuredly not. Yet I must inform 
you that a name higher than either of yours, and a 
constitution more perfect, is to be found in a vast con- 
tinent, of the very existence of which you had not the 
least suspicion. 

Mercury. — I see approaching a person of a noble 
and spirited air, if he did not hold his head a little on 
one side as if his neck were awry. 

Alexander. — Clio, I need not introduce myself : I 
am, as you well know, the son of Jupiter Amnion, and 
my arms have reached even to the remote shore of the 
Indus. 

Clio. — Pray burn your genealogy; and for the 
rest, suffer me to inform you that the river Indus and 
the whole peninsula which you scarcely discovered, 
with sixty millions of inhabitants, is at this moment 
subject to the dominion of a few merchants in a remote 
island of the Northern Ocean, the very name of which 
never reached your ears. 

Mercury. — Here is Empedocles, who threw him- 
self into y^Etna merely to be placed upon your roll ; 
and Calanus, who mounted his funeral pile before 
Alexander, from the same motive. 

Clio. — They have been remembered long enough 
in all reason : their places may be supplied by the two 
next madmen who shall throw themselves under the 
wheels of the chariot of Jaggernaut, — fanatics are the 
growth of every age. 

Mercury. — Here is a ghost preparing to address 



DIALOGUE IN THE SHADES. 45 

you with a very self-sufficient air : his robe is era- 
broided with flower-de-luces. 

Louis XIV. — I am persuaded, Clio, you will re- 
cognize the immortal man. I have always been a 
friend and patron of the Muses ; my actions are well 
known ; all Europe has resounded with my name, — 
the terror of other countries, the glory of my own : I 
am well assured you are not going to strike me off. 

Clio. — To strike you off? certainly not ; but to 
place you many degrees lower in the list ; to reduce 
you from a sun, your favorite emblem, to a star in the 
galaxy. My sisters have certainly been partial to you : 
you bought their favor with — how many livres a year ? 
not much more than a London bookseller will give for 
a quarto poem. But me you cannot bribe. 

Louis. — But, Clio, you have yourself recorded my 
exploits ; — the passage of the Rhine, Namur, Flan- 
ders, Franche Comte. 

Clio. — O Louis, if you could but guess the extent of 
the present French empire ; — but no, it could never 
enter into your imagination. 

Louis. — I rejoice at what you say ; I rejoice that 
my posterity have followed my steps, and improved 
upon my glory. 

Clio. — Your posterity have had nothing to do with it. 

Louis. — Remember too the urbanity of my charac- 
ter, how hospitably I received the unfortunate James 
of England, — England, the natural enemy of France. 

Clio. — Your hospitality has been well returned. 
Your descendants, driven from their thrones, are at 
this moment supported by the bounty of the nation 
and king of England. 

Louis. — O Clio, what is it that you tell me ! let me 
hide my diminished head in the deepest umbrage of 
the grove ; let me seek out my dear Maintenon, and 
tell my beads with her till I forget that I have been 
either praised or feared. 



46 DIALOGUE IN THE SHADES. 

Clio. — Comfort yourself, however ; your name, like 
the red letter which marks the holiday, though insignifi- 
cant in itself, shall still enjoy the honor of designating 
the age of taste and literature. 

Mercury. — Here is a whole crowd coming, Clio ; I 
can scarcely keep them off with my wand : they have 
all got notice of your intentions, and the infernal re- 
gions are quite in an uproar, — what is to be done ? 

Clio. — I cannot tell ; the numbers distract me : to 
examine their pretensions one by one is impossible ; I 
must strike off half of them at a venture : the rest 
must make room, — they must crowd, they must fall into 
the background ; and where I used to write a name all 
in capitals with letters of gold illuminated, I must put 
it in small pica. I do assure you, Mercury, I cannot 
stand the fatigue I undergo, much longer. I am not 
provided, as you very well know, with either chariot or 
wings, and I am expected to be in all parts of the 
globe at once. In the good old times, my business lay 
almost entirely between the Hellespont and the Pillars 
of Hercules, with sometimes an excursion to the 
mouths (then seven) of the Nile, or the banks of the 
Euphrates. But now I am required to be in a hun- 
dred places at once ; I am called from Jena to Auster- 
litz, from Cape Trafalgar to Aboukir, and from the 
Thames to the Ganges and Burampooter; besides a 
whole continent, a world by itself, fresh and vigorous, 
which I foresee will find me abundance of employ- 
ment. 

Mercury. — Truly I believe so ; I am afraid the old 
leaven is working in the new world. 

Clio. — I am puzzled at this moment how to give 
the account, which always is expected of me, of the 
august sovereigns of Europe. 

Mercury. — How so ? 

Clio. — I do not know where to find them ; they 
are most of them upon their travels. 



DIALOGUE IN THE SHADES. 47 

Mercury. — You must have been very much em- 
ployed in the French revolution. 

Clio. — Continually; the actors in the scene suc- 
ceeded one another with such rapidity, that the hero 
of to-day was forgotten on the morrow. Necker, Mi- 
rabeau, Dumourier, Lafayette, appeared successively, 
like the pictures in a magic lantern — shown for a 
moment and then withdrawn : and now the space is 
filled by one tremendous gigantic figure, that throws 
his broad shadow over half the globe. 

Mercury. — The ambition of Napoleon has indeed 
procured you much employment. 

Clio. — Employment ! There is not a goddess so 
harassed as I am ; my sisters lead quite idle lives in 
comparison. Melpomene has in a manner slept 
through the last half-century, except when now and 
then she dictated to a certain favorite nymph. Ura- 
nia, indeed, has employed herself with Herschel in 
counting the stars ; but her task is less than mine. 
Here am I expected to calculate how many hundred 
thousands of rational beings cut one another's throats 
at Austerlitz, and to take the tale of two hundred and 
thirteen thousand human bodies and ninety-five thou- 
sand horses, that lie stiff, frozen and unburied on the 
banks of the Berecina ; — and do you think, Mercury, 
this can be a pleasant employment ? 

Mercury. — I have had a great increase of employ- 
ment myself lately, on account of the multitude of 
shades I have been obliged to convey ; and poor old 
Charon is almost laid up with the rheumatism : we 
used to have a holiday comparatively during the win- 
ter months ; but of late, winter and summer I have 
observed are much alike to heroes. 

Clio. — I wish to Jupiter I could resign my office ! 
Son of Maia, I declare to you I am sick of the horrors 
I record ; I am sick of mankind. For above these 
three thousand years have I been warning them and 



48 DIALOGUE IN THE SHADES. 

reading lessons to them, and they will not mend : 
Robespierre was as cruel as Sylla, and Napoleon has 
no more moderation than Pyrrhus. The human 
frame, of curious texture, delicately formed, feeling, 
and irritable by the least annoyance, with face erect 
and animated with Promethean fire, they wound, they 
lacerate, they mutilate with most perverted ingenuity. 
I will go and record the actions of the tigers of Africa ; 
in them such fierceness is natural. Nay, the human 
race will be exterminated, if this work of destruction 
goes on much longer. 

Mercury. — With regard to that matter, Clio, I can 
set your heart at rest. A great philosopher has lately 
discovered that the world is in imminent danger of be - 
ing over-peopled ; and that if twenty or forty thousand 
men could not be persuaded every now and then to 
stand and be shot at, we should be forced to eat one 
another. This discovery has had a wonderful effect in 
quieting tender consciences. The calculation is very 
simple, any schoolboy will explain it to you. 

Clio. — O what a number of fertile plains and green 
savannahs, and tracts covered with trees of beautiful 
foliage, have never yet been pressed by human foot- 
steps ! My friend Swift's project of eating children 
was not so cruel as these bloody and lavish sacrifices 
to Mars, the most savage of all the gods. 

Mercury. — You forget yourself, Clio ; Mars is not 
worshipped now in Christian Europe. 

Clio. — By Jupiter, but he is ! Have I not seen the 
bloody and torn banners, with martial music and mili- 
tary procession, brought into the temple, — and whose 
temple, thinkest thou ? and to whom have thanks been 
given on both sides, amidst smoking towns and wasted 
fields, after the destruction of man and devastation of 
the fair face of nature ! — And Mercury, god of wealth 
and frauds, you have your temple too, though your 
name is not inscribed there. 



KNOWLEDGE AND HER DAUGHTER. 49 

Mercury. — I am afraid men will always love wealth. 

Clio. — Oh, if I had to record only such pure names 
as a Washington or a Howard ! 

Mercury. — It would be very gratifying, certainly : 
but then, Clio, you would have very little to do, and 
might almost as well burn your roll. 



KNOWLEDGE AND HER DAUGHTER. 

A FABLE. 

Knowledge, the daughter of Jupiter, descended 
from the skies to visit man. She found him naked 
and helpless, living on the spontaneous fruits of the 
earth, and little superior to the ox that grazed beside 
him. She clothed and fed him ; she built him pal- 
aces ; she showed him the hidden riches of the earth, 
and pointed with her finger the course of the stars as 
they rose and set in the horizon. Man became rich 
with her gifts, and accomplished from her conversa- 
tion. In process of time Knowledge became acquain- 
ted with the schools of the philosophers ; and being 
much taken with their theories and their conversation, 
she married one of them. They had many beautiful 
and healthy children ; but among the rest was a 
daughter of a different complexion from all the rest, 
whose name was Doubt. She grew up under many 
disadvantages ; she had a great hesitation in her 
speech ; a cast in her eye, which, however, was keen 
and piercing ; and was subject to nervous tremblings. 
Her mother saw her with dislike : but her father, who 
was of the sect of the Pyrrhonists, cherished and 
taught her logic, in which she made a great progress. 
The Muse of History was much troubled with her in- 
trusions : she would tear out whole leaves, and blot 



50 WASHING-DA Y. 

over many pages of her favorite works. With the di- 
vines her depredations were still worse : she was 
forbidden to enter a church ; notwithstanding which, 
she would slip in under the surplice, and spend her 
time in making mouths at the priest. If she got at a 
library, she destroyed or blotted over the most valua- 
ble manuscripts. A most undutiful child ; she was 
never better pleased than when she could unexpect- 
edly trip up her mother's heels, or expose a rent or an 
unseemly patch in her flowing and ample garment. 
With mathematicians she never meddled; but in all 
other systems of knowledge she intruded herself, and her 
breath diffused a mist over the page which often left 
it scarcely legible. Her mother at length said to her, 
" Thou art my child, and I know it is decreed that 
while I tread this earth thou must accompany my foot- 
steps ; but thou art mortal, I am immortal ; and there 
will come a time when I shall be freed from thy intru- 
sion, and shall pursue my glorious track from star to 
star, and from system to system, without impediment 
and without check." 



WASHING-DAY. 

. . . and their voice, 
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes 
And whistles in its sound. 

The Muses are turned gossips ; they have lost 
The buskined step, and clear high-sounding phrase, 
Language of gods. Come then, domestic Muse, 
In slipshod measure loosely prattling on 
Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream, 
Or drowning flies, or shoe lost in the mire 
By little whimpering boy, with rueful face ; 
Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded Washing- Day. 



WASHING-DA Y. 5 T 

Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend, 

With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day 

Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on 

Too soon ; — for to that day nor peace belongs 

Nor comfort ; — ere the first gray streak of dawn, 

The red-armed washers come and chase repose. 

Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth, 

E'er visited that day : the very cat, 

From the wet kitchen scared, and reeking hearth, 

Visits the parlor, — an unwonted guest. 

The silent breakfast-meal is soon despatched ; 

Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks 

Cast at the lowering sky, if sky should lower. 

From that last evil, O preserve us, heavens ! 

For should the skies pour down, adieu to all 

Remains of quiet : then expect to hear 

Of sad disasters, — dirt and gravel stains 

Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once 

Snapped short, — and linen-horse by dog thrown 

down, 
And all the petty miseries of life. 
Saints have been calm while stretched upon the 

rack, 
And Guatimozin smiled on burning coals ; 
But never yet did housewife notable 
Greet with a smile a rainy washing-day. 
— But grant the welkin fair, require not thou 
Who call'st thyself perchance the master there, 
Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat, 
Or usual 'tendance ; — ask not, indiscreet, 
Thy stockings mended, though the yawning rents 
Gape wide as Erebus ; nor hope to find 
Some snug recess impervious : shouldst thou try 
The 'customed garden walks, thine eye shall rue 
The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs, 
Myrtle or rose, all crushed beneath the weight, 
Of coarse checked apron, — with impatient hand 



52 WASHING-DAY. 

Twitched off when showers impend : or crossing 

lines 
Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet 
Flaps in thy face abrupt. Woe to the friend 
Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim 
On such a day the hospitable rites ! 
Looks, blank at best, and stinted courtesy, 
Shall he receive. Vainly he feeds his hopes 
With dinner of roast chickens, savory pie, 
Or tart or pudding : — pudding he nor tart 
That day shall eat ; nor, though the husband try,' 
Mending what can't be helped, to kindle mirth 
From cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow 
Clear up propitious : — the unlucky guest 
In silence dines, and early slinks away. 
I well remember, when a child, the awe 
This day struck into me; for then the maids, 
I scarce knew why, looked cross, and drove me from 

them : 
Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope 
Usual indulgences, — jelly or creams, 
Relic of costly suppers, and set by 
For me their petted one ; or buttered toast, 
When butter was forbid ; or thrilling tale 
Of ghost or witch, or murder. So I went 
And sheltered me beside the parlor fire : 
There my dear grandmother, eldest of forms, 
Tended the little ones, and watched from harm, 
Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles 
With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins 
Drawn from her ravelled stockings, might have 

soured 
One less indulgent. 

At intervals my mother's voice was heard, 
Urging despatch : briskly the work went on, 
All hands employed to wash, to rinse, to wring, 
To fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait. 



TRUE MAGICIANS. 53 

Then would I sit me down, and ponder much 
Why washings were. Sometimes through hollow 

bowl 
Of pipe amused we blew, and sent aloft 
The floating bubbles ; little dreaming then 
To see, Mongolfier, thy silken ball 
Ride buoyant through the clouds — so near ap- 
proach 
The sports of children and the toils of men. 
Earth, air, and sky, and ocean, hath its bubbles, 
And verse is one of them — this most of all. 



TRUE MAGICIANS. 

TO MISS C. 

My dear Sarah, — I have often reflected, since I 
left you, on the wonderful powers of magic exhibited 
by you and your sister. The dim obscurity of that 
grotto hollowed out by your hands under the laurel 
hedge, where you used to mix the ingredients of your 
incantations, struck us with awe and terror; and the 
broom which you so often brandished in your hands 
made you look very like witches indeed. I must con- 
fess, however, that some doubts have now and then 
arisen in my mind, whether or no you were truly initi- 
ated in the secrets of your art ; and these suspicions 
gathered strength after you had suffered us and your- 
self to be so drenched as we all were on that rainy 
Tuesday ; which, to say the least, was a very odd cir- 
cumstance, considering you had the command of the 
weather. As I was pondering these matters alone in 
the chaise between Epsom and London, I fell asleep 
and had the following dream. 



54 TRUE MAGICIANS. 

I thought I had been travelling through an unknown 
country, and came at last to a thick wood cut out into 
several groves and avenues, the gloom of which in- 
spired thoughtfulness, and a certain mysterious dread 
of unknown powers came upon me. I entered how- 
ever one of the avenues, and found it terminated in a 
magnificent portal, through which I could discern con- 
fusedly among thick foliage, cloistered arches and Gre- 
cian porticos, and people walking and conversing 
amongst the trees. Over the portal was the following 
inscription : "Here dwell the true magicians. Nature 
is our servant. Man is our pupil. We change, we 
conquer, we create." 

As I was hesitating whether or no I should presume 
to enter, a pilgrim, who was sitting under the shade, 
offered to be my guide, assuring rne that these magi- 
cians would do me no harm, and that so far from hav- 
ing any objection to be observed in their operations, 
they were pleased with any opportunity of exhibiting 
them to the curious. In therefore I went, and ad- 
dressed the first of the magicians I met with, who 
asked me whether I liked panoramas. On replying 
that I thought them very entertaining, she took me to 
a little eminence and bade me look round. I did so, 
and beheld the representation of the beautiful vale of 
Dorking, with Norbury-park and Box-hill to the north, 
Reigate to the east, and Leith tower with the Surrey 
hills to the south. After I had admired for some time 
the beauty and accuracy of the painting, a vast curtain 
seemed to be drawn gradually up, and my view extend- 
ed on all sides. On one hand I traced the windings 
of the Thames up to Oxford, and stretched my eye 
westward over Salisbury Plain, and across the Bristol 
Channel into the romantic country of South Wales ; 
northward the view extended to Lincoln cathedral, and 
York minster towering over the rest of the churches. 
Across the Sussex downs I had a clear view of the 



TRUE MAGICIANS. 55 

British Channel, and the opposite coast of France, with 
its ports blockaded by our fleets. As the horizon of 
the panorama still extended, I spied the towers of 
Notre Dame, and the Tuileries, and my eye wan- 
dered at large over " The vine-covered hills and gay 
regions of France," quite down to the source of the 
Loire. At the same time the great Atlantic ocean 
opened to my view ; and on the other hand I saw 
the lake of Geneva, and the dark ridge of Mount 
Jura, and discovered the summits of the Alps cov- 
ered with snow ; and beyond, the orange groves of It- 
aly, the majestic dome of St. Peter's, and the smok- 
ing crater of Vesuvius. As the curtain still rose, I 
stretched my view over the Mediterranean, the scene 
of ancient glory, the Archipelago studded with islands, 
the shores of the Bosphorus, and the gilded minarets 
and cypress groves of Constantinople. Throwing back 
a look to the less attractive north, I saw pictured the rug- 
ged, broken coast of Norway, the cheerless moors of 
Lapland, and the interminable desolation of the plains 
of Siberia. Turning my eye again southward, the land- 
scape extended to the plains of Barbary, covered with 
date-trees ; and I discerned the points of pyramids 
appearing above the horizon, and saw the Delta and 
the seven-mouthed Nile. In short, the curtain still 
rose, and the view extended further and further till 
the panorama took in the whole globe. I cannot ex- 
press to you the pleasure I felt as I saw mountains, 
seas, and islands, spread out before me. Sometimes 
my eye wandered over the vast plains of Tartary, 
sometimes it expatiated in the savannahs of America. 
I saw men with dark skins, white cotton turbans 
wreathed about their heads, and long flowing robes 
of silk ; others almost naked under a vertical sun. 
I saw whales sporting in the northern seas, and ele- 
phants trampling amidst fields of maize and forests 
of palm-trees. I seemed to have put a girdle about 



56 TRUE MAGICIANS. 

the earth, and was gratified with an infinite variety of 
objects which I thought I never could be weary of 
contemplating. At length, turning towards the magi- 
cian who had entertained me with such an agreeable 
exhibition, and asking her name, she informed me it 
was Geography. 

My attention was next arrested by a sorceress, who, 
I was told, possessed the power of calling up from the 
dead whomsoever she pleased, man or woman, in 
their proper habits and figures, and obliging them to 
converse and answer questions. She held a roll of 
parchment in her hand, and had an air of great dig- 
nity. I confess that I felt a little afraid ; but having 
been somewhat encouraged by the former exhibition, 
I ventured to ask her to give me a specimen of her 
power, in case there was nothing unlawful in it. 
"Whom," said she, "do you wish to behold?" Af- 
ter considering some time, I desired to see Cicero, the 
Roman orator. She made some talismanic figures 
on the sand, and presently he rose to my view, his 
neck and head bare, the rest of his body in a flowing 
toga, which he gathered round him with one hand, 
and stretching out the other very gracefully, he recited 
to me one of his orations against Catiline. He also 
read to me — which was more than I could in reason 
have expected — several of his familiar letters to his 
most intimate friends. I next desired that Julius Cae- 
sar might be called up : on which he appeared, his 
hair nicely arranged, and the fore part of his head, 
which was bald, covered with wreaths of laurel ; and 
he very obligingly gave me a particular account of his 
expedition into Gaul. I wished to see the youth of 
Macedon, but was a little disappointed in his figure, 
for he was low in stature and held his head awry ; 
but I saw him manage Bucephalus with admirable 
courage and address, and was afterwards introduced 
with him into the tent of Darius, where I was greatly 



TRUE MAGICIANS. 57 

pleased with the generosity and politeness of his be- 
havior. I afterwards expressed some curiosity to see 
a battle, if I might do it with safety, and was grat- 
ified with the sea-fight of Actium. I saw, after the 
first onset, the galleys of Cleopatra turning their prows 
and flying from the battle, and Antony, to his eternal 
shame, quitting the engagement and making sail after 
her. I then wished to call up all the kings of Eng- 
land, and they appeared in order, one after the other, 
with their crowns and the insignia of their dignity, 
and walked over the stage for my amusement, much 
like the descendants of Banquo in Macbeth. Their 
queens accompanied them, trailing their robes upon 
the ground, and the bishops with their mitres, and 
judges, and generals, and eminent persons of every 
class. I asked many questions as they passed, and 
received a great deal of information relative to the 
laws, manners, and transactions of past times. I did 
not, however, always meet with direct answers to my 
questions. For instance, when I called up Homer, and 
after some other conversation asked him where he was 
born, he only said, " Guess ! " And when I asked Louis 
the Fourteenth who was the man in the iron mask, 
he frowned and would not tell me. I took a great deal 
of pleasure in calling up the shades of distinguished 
people in different ages and countries, making them 
stand close by one another, and comparing their man- 
ners and costume. Thus I measured Catharine of 
Russia against Semiramis, and Aristotle against Lord 
Bacon. I could have spent whole years in conversa- 
tion with so many celebrated persons, and promised 
myself that I would often frequent this obliging magi- 
cian. Her name, I found, was in heaven Clio, on 
earth History. 

I saw another, who was making a charm for two 
friends, one of whom was going to the East Indies : 
they were bitterly lamenting that when they were 



58 TRUE MAGICIANS. 

parted at so great a distance from each other they 
could no longer communicate their thoughts, but 
must be cut off from each other's society. Pre- 
senting them with a talisman inscribed with four-and- 
twenty black marks, "Take this," she said; "I have 
breathed a voice upon it : by means of this talisman 
you shall still converse, and hear one another as dis- 
tinctly, when half the globe is between you, as if you 
were talking together in the same room." The two 
friends thanked her for such an invaluable present, 
and retired. Her name was Abracadabra. 

I was next invited to see a whispering- gallery, of a 
most curious and uncommon structure. To make 
the experiment of its powers, a young poet of a very 
modest appearance, who was stealing along in a re- 
tired walk, was desired to repeat a verse in it. He 
applied his lips to the wall, and whispered in a low 
voice, "l?ura mihi et rigui placeant in vallibus a??i- 
nes." The sound ran along the walls for some time 
in a kind of low whisper • but every minute it grew 
louder and louder, till at length it was echoed and re- 
echoed from every part of the gallery, and seemed 
to be pronounced by a multitude of voices at once, 
in different languages, till the whole dome was filled 
with the sound. There was a strong smell of in- 
cense. The gallery was constructed by Fame. 

The good pilgrim next conducted me to a cave 
where several sorceresses, very black and grim, were 
amusing themselves with making lightning, thunder, 
and earthquakes. I saw two vials of cold liquor 
mixed together, and flames burst forth from them. 
I saw some insignificant-looking black grains, which 
would throw palaces and castles into the air. I saw 
— and it made my hair stand on end — a headless 
man, who lifted up his arm and grasped a sword. I 
saw men flying through the air, without wings, over 
the tops of towns and castles, and come down unhurt. 



TRUE MAGICIANS. 59 

The cavern was very black, and the smoke and fires 
and mephitic blasts and sulphureous vapors that is- 
sued from it, gave the whole a very tremendous ap- 
pearance. I did not stay long, but as I retired I saw 
Chemistry written on the walls in letters of flame, with 
several other names which I do not now remember. 

My companion whispered me that some of these 
were suspected of communication with the evil genii, 
and that the demon of War had been seen to resort 
to the cave. "But now," said the pilgrim, "I will 
lead you to enchanters who deserve all your venera- 
tion, and are even more beneficent than those you 
have already seen." He then led me to a cavern that 
opened upon the sea shore : it blew a terrible storm, 
the waves ran mountains high, the wind roared, and 
vessels were driven against each other with a terrible 
shock. A female figure advanced and threw a little 
oil upon the waves ; they immediately subsided, the 
winds were still, the storm was laid, and the vessels 
pursued their course in safety. " By what magic is 
this performed?" exclaimed I. "The magician is 
Meekness" replied my conductor ; " she can smooth 
the roughest sea, and allay the wildest storm." 

My view was next directed to a poor wretch, who 
lay groaning in a most piteous manner, and crushed 
to the earth with a mountain on his breast ; he uttered 
piercing shrieks, and seemed totally unable to rise or 
help himself. One of these good magicians, whose 
name I found was Patience, advanced and struck the 
mountain with a wand ; on which, to my great sur- 
prise, it diminished to a size not more than the load 
of an ordinary porter, which the man threw over 
his sho alders, with something very like a smile, and 
marched off with a firm step and very composed air. 

I must not pass over a charmer of a very pleasing 
appearance and lively aspect. She possessed the 
power (a very useful one in a country so subject to 



60 TRUE MAGICIANS. 

fogs and rains as this is) of gilding a landscape with 
sunshine whenever she breathed upon it. Her name 
was Cheerfulness. Indeed you may remember that 
your papa brought her down with him on that very 
rainy day when we could not go out at all, and he 
played on his flute to you and you all danced. 

I was next struck, on ascending an eminence, with 
a most dreary landscape. All the flat country was 
one stagnant marsh. Amidst the rushy grass lay the 
fiend Ague, listless and shivering : on the bare and 
bleak hills sat Famine, with a few shells of acorns 
before her, of which she had eaten the fruit. The 
woods were tangled and pathless ; the howl of wolves 
was heard. A few smoky huts, or caves, not much 
better than the dens of wild beasts, were all the hab- 
itations of men that presented themselves. " Miser- 
able country ! " I exclaimed ; "step-child of nature ! " 
"This," said my conductor, "is Britain as our ances- 
tors possessed it." " And by what magic," I replied, 
" has it been converted into the pleasant land we now 
inhabit?" "You shall see," said he. "It has been 
the work of one of our most powerful magicians. 
Her name is Industry." At the word, she advanced 
and waved her wand over the scene. Gradually the 
waters ran off into separate channels, and left rich 
meadows covered with innumerable flocks and herds. 
The woods disappeared, except what waved grace- 
fully on the tops of the hills, or rilled up the unsightly 
hollows. Wherever she moved her wand, roads, 
bridges, and canals laid open and improved the face 
of the country. A numerous population, spread 
abroad in the fields, were gathering in the harvest. 
Smoke from warm cottages ascended through the 
trees, pleasant towns and villages marked the several 
points of distance. Last, the Thames was filled with 
forests of masts, and proud London appeared with all 
its display of wealth and grandeur. 



A LECTURE ON THE USE OF WORDS. 61 

I do not know whether it was the pleasure I re- 
ceived from this exhilarating scene, or the carriage 
having just got upon the pavement, which awakened 
me ; but I determined to write out my dream, and 
advise you to cultivate your acquaintance with all the 
true Arts of Magic. 



A LECTURE ON THE USE OF WORDS. 

My dear mamma, who worked you this scarf? it is 
excessively pretty. 

I am sorry for it, my dear. 

Sorry, mamma ! are you sorry it is pretty ? 

No, but I am sorry if it is excessively pretty. 

Why so ? — a thing cannot be too pretty, can it ? 

If so, it cannot be excessively pretty. Pray what do 
you mean by excessively pretty? 

Why, excessively pretty means — it means very 
pretty. 

What does the word excessively come from? What 
part of speech is it ? You know your grammar ? 

It is an adverb : the words that end in ly are ad- 
verbs. 

Adverbs are derived from adjectives by adding ly, 
you should have said ; — excessive, excessively. And 
what is the noun from which they are both derived ? 

Excess. 

And what does excess mean ? 

It means too much of any thing. 

You see then that it implies a fault, and therefore 
cannot be applied as a commendation. We say a 
man is excessively greedy, excessively liberal ; a wo- 
man excessively fine : but not that a man is exces- 
sively wise, a woman excessively faithful to her hus- 



62 A LECTURE ON THE USE • OF WORDS. 

band ; because in these there is no excess : nor is 
there in beauty, that being the true and just proportion 
which gives pleasure. 

But we say " excessively kind." 

We do, because kindness has its limits. A person 
may be too kind to us, who exposes himself to a great 
and serious inconvenience to give us a slight pleasure : 
we also may mean by it, exceeding that kindness which 
we have a claim to expect. But when people use it, 
as they often do, on the slightest occasion, it is cer- 
tainly as wrong as " excessively pretty." 

But, mamma, must we always consider so much the 
exact meaning of words ? Every body says " exces- 
sively pretty," and "excessively tall," and "infinitely 
obliged to you." What harm can it do ? <, 

That every body does it, I deny ; that the generality 
do it, is very true ; but it is likewise true, that the 
generality are not to be taken as a pattern in any 
thing. As to the harm it does, — in the first place it 
hurts our sincerity. 

Why, it is not telling a lie, sure ? 

Certainly I do not mean to say it is ; but it tends to 
sap and undermine the foundations of our integrity, 
by making us careless, if not in the facts we assert, 
yet in the measure and degree in which we assert 
them. If we do not pretend to love those we have 
no affection for, or to admire those we despise, at least 
we lead them to think we admire them more and love 
them better than we really do ; and this prepares the 
way for more serious deviations from truth. So much 
for its concern with morality : — but it has likewise a 
very bad effect on our taste. What, think you, is the 
reason that young people, especially, run -into these 
vague and exaggerated expressions ? 

What is vague, mamma? 

It means what has no precise, definite signification. 
Young people run into these, sometimes indeed from 



A LECTURE OAT THE USE OF WORDS. 63 

having more feeling than judgment, but more com- 
monly from not knowing how to separate their ideas 
and tell what it is they are pleased with. They either 
do not know, or will not give themselves the trouble to 
mark, the qualities, or to describe the scenes which 
disgust or please them, and hope to cover their defi- 
ciency by these overwhelming expressions ; as if your 
dress-maker, not knowing your shape, should make a 
large loose frock, that would cover you over were you 
twice as tall as you are. Now you would have shown 
your taste, if in commending my scarf you had said 
that the pattern was light, or it was rich, or that the 
work was neat and true ; but by saying it was exces- 
sively pretty, you showed you had not considered 
what it was you admired in it. Did you never hear of 
the countryman who said, " There will be monstrous 
few apples this year, and those few will be huge little " ? 
Poets run into this fault when they give unmeaning 
epithets instead of appropriate description ; — young 
ladies, when in their letters they run into exaggerated 
expressions of friendship. 

You have often admired, in this painting, the variety 
of tints shaded into one another. Well ! what would 
you think of a painter who should spread one deep 
blue over all the sky, and one deep green over the 
grass and trees ? would not you say he was a dauber ? 
and made near objects and distant objects, and objects 
in the sun and objects in the shade, all alike? I think 
I have some of your early performances in which you 
have colored prints pretty much in this style ; but you 
would not paint so now ? 

No, indeed. 

Then do not talk so : do not paint so with words. 



THE CATERPILLAR. 



No, helpless thing, I cannot harm thee now ; 

Depart in peace, thy little life is safe. 

For I have scanned thy form with curious eye, 

Noted the silver line that streaks thy back, 

The azure and the orange that divide 

Thy velvet sides ; thee, houseless wanderer, 

My garment has enfolded, and my arm 

Felt the light pressure of thy hairy feet ; 

Thou hast curled round my finger ; from its tip, 

Precipitous descent ! with stretched out neck, 

Bending thy head in airy vacancy, 

This way and that, inquiring, thou hast seemed , 

To ask protection ; now, I cannot kill thee. 

Yet I have sworn perdition to thy race, 

And recent from the slaughter am I come 

Of tribes and embryo nations : I have sought 

With sharpened eye and persecuting zeal, 

Where, folded in their silken webs they lay 

Thriving and happy ; swept them from the tree 

And crushed whole families beneath my foot ; 

Or sudden, poured on their devoted heads 

The vials of destruction. This I 've done, 

Nor felt the touch of pity : but when thou, — 

A single wretch, escaped the general doom, 

Making me feel and clearly recognize 

Thine individual existence, life, 

And fellowship of sense with all that breathes, — 

Present'st thyself before me, I relent, 

And cannot hurt thy weakness. So the storm 



EARTH. 65 

Of horrid war, o'erwhelming cities, fields, 

And peaceful villages, rolls dreadful on : 

The victor shouts triumphant ; he enjoys 

The roar of cannon and the clang of arms, 

And urges, by no soft relentings stopped, 

The work of death and carnage. Yet should one, 

A single sufferer from the field escaped, 

Panting and pale, and bleeding at his feet, 

Lift his imploring eyes, — the hero weeps ; 

He is grown human, and capricious Pity, 

Which would not stir for thousands, melts for one 

With sympathy spontaneous : — 'T is not Virtue, 

Yet 't is the weakness of a virtuous mind. 



EARTH. 

All the different substances which we behold have 
by the earliest philosophers been resolved into four ele- 
ments, — Earth, Water, Air, and Fire. These, com- 
bined with endless diversity, in their various dance, 
under the direction of the great First Mover, form this 
scene of things, — so complex, so beautiful, so infinitely 
varied ! 

Earth is the element which on many accounts claims 
our chief notice. It forms the bulk of that vast body 
of matter which composes our globe ; and, like the 
bones to the human body, it gives firmness, shape, and 
solidity to the various productions of Nature. It is 
ponderous, dull, unanimated, ever seeking the lowest 
place ; and, except moved by some external impulse, 
prone to rest in one sluggish mass. Yet when fermented 
into life by the quickening power of vegetation, — in 
how many forms of grace and beauty does it rise to 
the admiring eye ! How gay, how vivid with colors ! 

5 



66 EARTH. 

how fragrant with smells ! how rich with tastes, — lus- 
cious, poignant, sapid, mild, pungent, or saccharine ! 
Into what delicate textures is it spread out in the thin 
leaf of the rose, or the light film of the floating gossa- 
mer ! How curious in the elegant ramifications of trees 
and shrubs, or the light dust which the microscope dis- 
covers to contain the seed of future plants ! 

Nor has earth less of magnificence, in the various 
appearances with which upon a larger scale its broad 
surface is diversified ; whether we behold it stretched 
out into immense plains and vast savannahs, whose 
level green is bounded only by the horizon ; or mould- 
ed into those gentle risings and easy declivities whose 
soft and undulating lines court the pencil of the land- 
scape-painter ; or whether, swelled into bulk enormous, 
it astonishes the eye with vast masses of solid rock and 
long-continued bulwarks of stone. Such are the Pyre- 
nees, the Alps, the Andes, which stand the everlasting 
boundaries of nations ; and, while kingdoms rise and 
fall, and the lesser works of nature change their appear- 
ance all around them, immovable on their broad basis, 
strike the mind with an idea of stability little short of 
eternal duration. 

If from the mountains which possess the middle of 
Earth we bend our course to the green verge of her 
dominions, the utmost limits of her shores, where land 
and water, like two neighboring potentates, wage eter- 
nal war, — with what steady majesty does she repel the 
encroachments of the ever-restless ocean, and dash the 
turbulence of waves from her strong-ribbed sides ! 

Nor do thy praises end here. With a kind of filial 
veneration I hail thee, O universal mother of all the 
elements, — to man the most mild, the most benefi- 
cent, the most congenial ! Man himself is formed from 
thee : on thy maternal breast he reposes when weary ; 
thy teeming lap supplies him with never-failing plenty ; 
and when for a few years he has moved about upon thy 



EARTH. 67 

surface, he is gathered again to thy peaceful bosom, at 
once his nurse, his cradle, and his grave. 

Who can reckon up the benefits supplied to us by 
this parent Earth, — ever serviceable, ever indulgent ! 
with how many productions does she reward the labor 
of the cultivator ! how many more does she pour out 
spontaneously ! How faithfully does she keep, with 
what large interest does she restore, the seed committed 
to her by the husbandman ! What an abundance does 
she yield, of food for the poor, of delicacies for the 
rich ! Her wealth is inexhaustible ; and all that is 
called riches among men consists in possessing a small 
portion of her surface. 

How patiently does she support the various burdens 
laid upon her ! We tear her with ploughs and harrows, 
we crush her with castles and palaces ; nay, we pene- 
trate her very bowels, and bring to light the veined 
marble, the pointed crystal, the ponderous ores and 
sparkling gems, deep hid in darkness, the more to ex- 
cite the industry of man. Yet, torn and harassed as 
she might seem to be, our mother Earth is still fresh 
and young, as if she but now came out of the hands of 
her Creator. Her harvests are as abundant, her horn 
of plenty as overflowing, her robe as green, her un- 
shorn tresses (the waving foliage of brown forests) as 
luxuriant ; and all her charms as blooming and full of 
vigor. Such she remains, and such we trust she will 
remain, till in some fated hour the more devouring ele- 
ment of fire, having broke the bonds of harmonious 
union, shall seize upon its destined prey, and all nature 
sink beneath the mighty ruin. 



ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 



Letter I. 



My dear Lydia, — I was told the other day that you 
have not forgotten a promise of mine to correspond 
with you upon some subject which might be worth dis- 
cussing, and relative to your pursuits. I have often 
recollected it also ; and,, as promises ought not only to 
be recollected but fulfilled, I will without further pre- 
face throw together some thoughts on History, — a 
study that I know you value as it deserves ; and I trust 
it will not be disagreeable to you, if you should find 
some observations which your own mind may have sug- 
gested, or which you may recollect to have heard from 
me in some of those hours which we spent together 
with mutual pleasure. 

Much has been said of the uses of history. They 
are no doubt many, yet do not apply equally to all : 
but it is quite sufficient to make it a study worth our 
pains and time, that it satisfies the desire which natu- 
rally arises in every intelligent mind to know the trans- 
actions of the country, of the globe in which he lives. 
Facts, as facts, interest our curiosity and engage our 
attention. 

Suppose a person placed in a part of the country 
where he was a total stranger ; he would naturally ask. 
who are the chief people of the place, what family they 
are of, whether any of their ancestors have been famous, 
and for what. If he see a ruined abbey, he will inquire 
what the building was used for ; and if he be told it 



ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 69 

is a place where people got up at midnight to sing 
psalms, and scourged themselves in the day, he will 
ask how there came to be such people, or why there 
are none now. If he observes a dilapidated castle 
which appears to have been battered by violence, he 
will ask in what quarrel it suffered, and why they built 
formerly structures so different from any we see now. 
If any part of the inhabitants should speak a different 
language from the rest, or have some singular customs 
among them, he would suppose they came originally 
from some remote part of the country, and would in- 
form himself, if he could, of the causjs of their peculi- 
arities. 

If he were of a curious temper, he would not rest till 
he had informed himself whom every estate in the par- 
ish belonged to, what hands they had gone through, 
how one man got this field by marrying an heiress, and 
the other lost that meadow by a ruinous lawsuit. As 
a man of spirit, he would feel delighted on hearing the 
relation of the opposition made by an honest yeoman 
to an overbearing rich man, on the subject of an accus- 
tomed pathway or right of common. If he should find 
the town or village divided into parties he would take 
some pains to trace the original cause of their dissen- 
sion, and to find out, if possible, who had the right on 
his side. Circumstances would often occur to excite 
his attention. If he saw a bridge, he would ask when 
and by whom it was built. If in digging in his garden 
he should find utensils of a singular form and construc- 
tion, or a pot of money with a stamp and legend quite 
different from the common coin, he would be led to in- 
quire when they were in use, and to whom they had 
belonged. His curiosity would extend itself by degrees. 
If a brook ran through the meadows, he would be 
pleased to trace it till it swelled into a river, and the 
river till it lost itself in the sea. He would be asking 
whose seat he saw upon the edge of a distant forest, 



70 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 

and what sort of country lay behind the range of hills 
that bounded his utmost view. If any strangers came 
to visit or reside in the place where he lived, he would 
be questioning them about the country they came from, 
their connections and alliances, and the remarkable 
transactions that had taken place within their memory 
or that of their parents. The answers to these ques- 
tions would insensibly grow up into history, which, as 
you see, does not originate in abstruse speculations, but 
grows naturally out of our situation and relative connec- 
tions. It gratifies a curiosity which all feel in some 
degree, but which spreads and enlarges itself with the 
cultivation of our powers, till at length it embraces the 
whole globe which we inhabit. To know is as natural 
to the mind as to see is to the eye, and knowledge is 
itself an ultimate end. But though this may be es- 
teemed an ultimate and sufficient end, the study of 
history is important to various purposes. Few pursuits 
tend more to enlarge the mind. It gives us, and it 
only can give us, an extended knowledge of human 
nature ; — not human nature as it exists in one age or 
climate or particular spot of earth, but human nature 
under all the various circumstances by which it can be 
affected. It shows us what is radical and what is 
adventitious ; it shows us that man is still man in Tur- 
key and in Lapland, as a vassal in Russia or a member 
of a wandering tribe in India, in ancient Athens or 
modern Rome ; yet that his character is susceptible of 
violent changes, and becomes moulded into infinite 
diversities by the influence of government, climate, 
civilization, wealth, and poverty. By showing us how 
man has acted, it shows us to a certain degree how he 
will ever act in given circumstances ; and general rules 
and maxims are drawn from it for the service of the 
lawgiver and the statesman. 

Here I must observe however, with regard to events ', 
that a knowledge of history does not seem to give us 



ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 71 

any great advantage in foreseeing and preparing for 
them. The deepest politician, with all his knowledge 
of the revolutions of past ages, could probably no 
more have predicted the course and termination of the 
late French Revolution, than a common man. The state 
of our own national debt has baffled calculation ; the 
course of ages has presented nothing like it. Who 
could have pronounced that the struggle of the Ameri- 
cans would be successful — that of the Poles unsuc- 
cessful ? Human characters indeed act always alike : 
but events depend upon circumstances as well as 
characters ; and circumstances are infinitely various 
and changed by the slightest causes. A battle won 
or lost may decide the fate of an empire : but a bat- 
tle may be won or lost by a shower of snow being 
blown to the east or the west ; by a horse (the gener- 
al's) losing his shoe ; by a bullet or an arrow taking 
a direction a tenth part of an inch one way or the 
other. The whole course of the French affairs might 
have been changed if the king had not stopped to 
breakfast, or if the postmaster of Varennes had not 
happened to know him. These are particulars which 
no man can foresee ; and therefore no man can with 
precision foresee events. 

The rising up of certain characters at particular 
periods ranks among those unforeseen circumstances 
that powerfully influence events. Often does a single 
man, as Epaminondas, illustrate his country, and leave 
a long track of light after him to future ages. And 
who can tell how much even America owed to the 
accident of being served by such a man as Washing- 
ton? There are always many probable events. All 
that history enables the politician to do, is to predict 
that one or other of them will take place. If so and 
so, it will be this ; if so and so, it will be that : but 
which, we cannot tell. There are always combinations 
of circumstances which have never met before from 



72 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 

the creation of the world, and which mock all power 
of calculation. But let the circumstances be known 
and the characters upon the stage, and history will tell 
him what to expect from them. It will tell him with 
certainty, for instance, that a treaty extorted by force 
from distress, will be broken when opportunity offers ; 
that if the church and the monarch are united they 
will oppress, if at variance they will divide, the peo- 
ple ; that a powerful nation will make its advantage 
of the divisions of a weaker which applies for its as- 
sistance. 

It is another advantage of history, that it stores the 
mind with facts that apply to most subjects which 
occur in conversation among enlightened people. 
Whether morals, commerce, languages, polite litera- 
ture be the object of discussion, it is history that must 
supply her large storehouse of proofs and illustrations. 
A man or a woman may decline without blame many 
subjects of literature, but to be ignorant of history is 
not permitted to any of a cultivated mind. It may 
be reckoned among its advantages, that this study nat- 
urally increases the love of every man to his country. 
We can only love what we know ; it is by becoming 
acquainted with the long line of patriots, heroes, and 
distinguished men, that we learn to love the country 
which has produced them. 

But I must conclude this letter, already perhaps too 
long, though I have not got to the end of my subject : 
it will give me soon another opportunity of subscribing 
myself 

Your ever affectionate friend. 



ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 73 



Letter II. 

I left off, my dear Lydia, with mentioning, among 
the advantages of an acquaintance with history, that it 
fosters the sentiments of patriotism. 

What is a man's country? To the unlettered 
peasant who has never left his native village, that 
village is his country, and consequently all of it he 
can love. The man who mixes in the world, and has 
a large acquaintance with the characters existing along 
with himself upon the stage of it, has a wider range. 
His idea of a country extends to its civil polity, its 
military triumphs, the eloquence of its courts, and the 
splendor of its capital. All the great and good char- 
acters he is acquainted with swell his idea of its im- 
portance, and endear to him the society of which he 
is a member. But how wonderfully does this idea 
expand, and how majestic a form does it put on, when 
history conducts our retrospective view through past 
ages ! How much more has the man to love, how 
much to interest him in his country, in whom her 
image is identified with the virtues of an Alfred, with 
the exploits of the Henrys and Edwards, with the 
fame and fortunes of the Sidneys and Hampdens, the 
Lockes and Miltons, who have illustrated her annals ! 
Like a man of noble birth who walks up and down in 
a long gallery of portraits, and is able to say, " This, 
my progenitor, was admiral in such a fight; that, my 
great-uncle, was general in such an engagement ; he 
on the right hand held the seals in such a reign ; that 
lady in so singular a costume was a celebrated beauty 
two hundred years ago ; this little man in the black 
cap and peaked beard was one of the luminaries of 
his age, and suffered for his religion; " — he learns to 
value himself upon his ancestry, and to feel interested 
for the honor and prosperity of the whole line of de- 



74 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 

scendants. Could a Swiss, think you, be so good a 
patriot who had never heard of the name of William 
Tell ? or the Hollander, who should be unacquainted 
with the glorious struggles which freed his nation from 
the tyranny of the Duke of Alva? 

The Englishman conversant in history has been 
long acquainted with his country. He knew her in 
the infancy of her greatness ; has seen her, perhaps, 
in the wattled huts and slender canoes in which Caesar 
discovered her : he has watched her rising fortunes, 
has trembled at her dangers, rejoiced at her deliver- 
ances, and shared with honest pride triumphs that 
were celebrated ages before he was born. He has 
traced her gradual improvement through many a dark 
and turbulent period, many a storm of civil warfare, to 
the fair reign of her liberty and law, to the fulness 
of her prosperity and the amplitude of her fame. 

Or, should our patriot have his lot cast in some age 
and country which has declined from this high sta- 
tion of pre-eminence ; should he observe the gath- 
ering glooms of superstition and ignorance ready to 
close again over the bright horizon ; should Liberty 
lie prostrate at the feet of a despot, and the golden 
stream of commerce, diverted into other channels, 
leave nothing but beggary and wretchedness around 
him ; — even then, in these ebbing fortunes of his coun- 
try, history, like a faithful meter, would tell him how 
high the tide had once risen ; he would not tread un- 
consciously the ground where the Muses and the Arts 
had once resided, like the goat that stupidly browses 
upon the fane of Minerva. Even the name of his 
country will be dear and venerable to him. He will 
muse over her fallen greatness, sit down under the 
shade of her never-dying laurels, build his little cot- 
tage amidst the ruins of her towers and temples, and 
contemplate with tenderness and respect the decaying 
age of his once illustrious parent. 



ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 75 

But if an acquaintance with history thus increases a 
rational love of our country, it also tends to check 
those low, illiberal, vulgar prejudices which adhere to 
the uninformed of every nation. Travelling will also 
cure them : but to travel is not within the power of 
every one. There is no use, but a great deal of harm 
in fostering a contempt for other nations ; in an arro- 
gant assumption of superiority, and the clownish sneer 
of ignorance at every thing in laws, government, or 
manners which is not fashioned after our partial ideas 
and familiar usages. A well-informed person will 
not be apt to exclaim at every event out of the com- 
mon way, that nothing like it has ever happened since 
the creation of the world, that such atrocities are to- 
tally unheard-of in any age or nation, — sentiments we 
have all of us so often heard of late on the subject of 
the French Revolution, — when in fact we can scarcely 
open a page of their history without being struck with 
similar and equal enormities. Indeed, party spirit is 
very much cooled and checked by an acquaintance 
with the events of past times. 

When we see the mixed and imperfect virtue of 
the most distinguished characters ; the variety of mo- 
tives, some pure and some impure, which influence 
political conduct; the partial success of the wisest 
schemes, and the frequent failure of the fairest hopes ; 
— we shall find it more difficult to choose a side, and 
to keep up an interest towards it in our minds, than 
to restrain our feelings and language within the bounds 
of good sense and moderation. This, by the way, 
makes it particularly proper that ladies who interest 
themselves in the events of public life should have 
their minds cultivated by an acquaintance with histo- 
ry, without which they are apt to let the whole 
warmth of their natures flow out, upon party matters, 
in an ardor more honest than wise, more zealous than 
candid. 



76 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 

With regard to the moral uses of history, what has 
just been mentioned may stand for one. It serves 
also by exercise to strengthen the moral feelings. 
The traits of generosity, heroism, disinterestedness, 
magnanimity, are scattered over it like sparkling gems, 
and arrest the attention of the most common reader. 
It is wonderfully interesting to follow the revolutions 
of a great state, particularly when they lead to the 
successful termination of some glorious contest. Is it 
true ? — a child asks, when you tell him a wonderful 
story that strikes his imagination. The writer of fic- 
tion has the unlimited command of events and of 
characters ; yet that single circumstance of truth, — that 
the events related really came to pass, that the heroes 
brought upon the stage really existed, — counterbal- 
ances, with respect to interest, all the privileges of the 
former, and in a mind a little accustomed to exertion 
will throw the advantage on the side of the historian. 

The more history approaches to biography the 
more interest it excites. Where the materials are 
meagre and scanty, the antiquarian and chronologer 
may dwell upon the page ; but it will seldom excite 
the glow of admiration or draw the delicious tear of 
sensibility. I must acknowledge, however, in order 
to be candid, that the emotions excited by the actions 
of our species are not always of so pleasing or so 
edifying a nature. The miseries and the vices of man 
form a large part of the picture of human society : 
the pure mind is disgusted by depravity, the existence 
of which it could not have imagined to itself; and the 
feeling heart is cruelly lacerated by the sad repetition 
of wrongs and oppression, chains and slaughter, sack 
and massacre, which assail it in every page : till the 
mind has gained some strength, so frightful a picture 
should hardly be presented to it. Chosen periods of 
history may be selected for youth, as the society of 
chosen characters precedes in well-regulated educa- 



ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 77 

tion a more indiscriminate acquaintance with the 
world. In favor of a more extended view, I can 
only say that truth is truth, — man must be shown as 
the being he really is, or no real knowledge is gained. 
If a young person were to read only the Beauties of 
History, or, according to Madame Genlis's scheme, 
stories and characters in which all that was vicious 
should be left out, he might as well, for any real ac- 
quaintance with life he would gain, have been reading 
all the while Sir Charles Grandison or the Princess of 
Cleves. 

One consoling idea will present itself with no small 
degree of probability on comparing the annals of past 
and present times, — that of a tendency to ameliora- 
tion ; at least it is evidently found in those countries 
with which we are most connected. But the only 
balm that can be poured with full effect into the feel- 
ing mind which bleeds for the folly and wickedness of 
man, is the belief that ail events are directed and con- 
trolled by supreme wisdom and goodness. Without 
this persuasion, the world becomes a desert, and its 
devastators the wolves and tigers that prowl over it. 

It is needless to insist on the uses of history to those 
whose situation in life gives them room to expect 
that their actions may one day become the objects of 
it. Besides the immediate necessity to them of the 
knowledge it supplies, it affords the strongest motives 
for their conduct, of hope and fear. The solemn 
award, the incorruptible tribunal, and the severe soul- 
searching inquisition of posterity is calculated to strike 
an awe into their souls. They cannot take refuge 
in oblivion : it is not permitted them to die : — they 
may be the objects of gratitude or detestation as long 
as the world stands. They may flatter themselves 
that they have silenced the voice of truth ; they may 
forbid newspapers and pamphlets and conversation ; — 
an unseen hand is all the while tracing out their his- 



78 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 

tory, and often their minutest actions, in indelible 
characters ; and it will soon be held up for the judg- 
ment of the world at large. 

Lastly, this permanency of human characters tends 
to cherish in the mind the hope and belief of an ex- 
istence after death. If we had no notices from the 
page of history of those races of men that have lived 
before us, they would seem to be completely swept 
away ; and we should no more think of inquiring what 
human beings filled our place upon the earth a thou- 
sand harvests ago, than we should think about the 
generations of cattle which at that time grazed the 
marshes of the Tiber, or the venerable ancestors of 
the goats that are browsing upon Mount Hymettus ; — 
no vestige would remain of one any more than of the 
other, and we might more pardonably fall into the 
opinion that they both had shared a similar fate. But 
when we see illustrious characters continuing to live on 
in the eye of posterity, their memories still fresh, 
and their noble actions shining with all the vivid col- 
oring of truth and reality, ages after the very dust of 
their tombs is scattered, high conceptions kindle within 
us ; and feeling one immortality we are lead to hope 
for another. We find it hard to persuade ourselves 
that the man, who like Antoninus or Socrates, fills the 
world with the sweet perfume of his virtue, the mar- 
tyr or the patriot to whom posterity is doing the justice 
which was denied him by his contemporaries, should 
all the while himself be blotted out of existence ; that 
he should be benefiting mankind and doing good so 
long after he is capable of receiving any; that we 
should be so well acquainted with him, and that he 
should never know any thing of us. That one who is 
an active agent in the world, instructing, informing it, 
inspiring friendship, making disciples, should be noth- 
ing — this does not seem probable ; the records of 
time suggest to us eternity. — Farewell. 



ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 79 



Letter III. 

My dear Lydia, — We have considered the uses of 
History ; I would now direct your attention to those 
collateral branches of science which are necessary for 
the profitable understanding of it. It is impossible to 
understand one thing well without understanding to a 
certain degree many other things ; there is a mutual 
dependence between all parts of knowledge. This is 
the reason that a child never fully comprehends what 
he is taught : he receives an idea, but not the full idea, 
perhaps not the principal of what you want to teach 
him. But as his mind opens, this idea enlarges and 
receives accessory ideas, till slowly and by degrees he 
is master of the whole. This is particularly the case in 
history. You may recollect probably that the mere 
adventure was all you entered into, in those portions of 
it which were presented to you at a very early age. 
You could understand nothing of the springs of action, 
nothing of the connection of events with the intrigues 
of cabinets, with religion, with commerce ; nothing of 
the state of the world at different periods of society and 
improvement : and as little could you grasp the meas- 
ured distances of time and space which are set between 
them. This you could not do, not because the history 
was not related with clearness, but because you were 
destitute of other knowledge. 

The first studies which present themselves as acces- 
sories in this light are Geography and Chronology, 
which have been called the two eyes of History. When 
was it done? Where was it done? are the two first 
questions you would ask concerning any fact that was 
related to you. Without these two particulars there 
can be no precision or clearness. 

Geography is best learned along with history ; for if 
the first explains history, the latter gives interest to 



So ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 

geography, which without it is but a dry list of names. 
For this reason, if a young person begin with ancient 
history, I should think it advisable, after a slight gene- 
ral acquaintance with the globe, to confine his geogra- 
phy to the period and country of which he is reading ; 
and it would be a desirable thing to have maps adapted 
to each remarkable period in the great empires of the 
world. These should not contain any towns or be 
divided into any provinces which were not known at 
that period. A map of Egypt for instance, calculated 
for its ancient monarchy, should have Memphis marked 
in it, but not Alexandria, because the two capitals did 
not exist together. A map of Judea for the time of 
Solomon, or any period of its monarchy, should not ex- 
hibit the name of Samaria, nor the villages of Bethany 
and Nazareth : but each country should have the towns 
and divisions, as far as they are known, calculated for 
the period the map was meant to illustrate. Thus ge- 
ography, civil geography, wxmld be seen to grow out of 
history • and the mere view of the map would suggest 
the political state of the world at any period. 

It would be a pleasing speculation to see how the 
arbitrary divisions of kingdoms and provinces vary and 
become obsolete, and large towns flourish and fall again 
into ruins : while the great natural features, the moun- 
tains, rivers, and seas remain unchanged, by whatever 
names we please to call them, whatever empire encloses 
them within its temporary boundaries. We have, it is 
true, ancient and modern maps ; but the one set in- 
cludes every period from the Flood to the provinciat- 
ing the Roman empire under Trajan, and the other 
takes in all the rest. About half a dozen sets for the 
ancient states and empires, and as many for the mod- 
ern, would be sufficient to exhibit the most important 
changes, and would be as many as we should be able 
to give with any clearness. The young student should 
make it an invariable rule never to read history with- 



ON THE USES OF HISTORY. Si 

out a map before him ; to which should be added 
plans of towns, harbors, &c. These should be conven- 
iently placed under the eye, separate if possible from 
the book he is reading, that by frequent glancing upon 
them the image of the country may be indelibly im- 
pressed on his imagination. 

Besides the necessity of maps for understanding his- 
tory, the memory is wonderfully assisted by the local 
association which they supply. The battles of Issus 
and the Granicus will not be confounded by those who 
have taken the pains to trace the rivers on whose banks 
they were fought : the exploits of Hannibal are con- 
nected with a view of the Alps, and the idea of Leoni- 
das is inseparable from the straits of Thermopylae. The 
greater accuracy of maps, and still more the facility, 
from the arts of printing and engraving, of procuring 
them, is an advantage the moderns have over the an- 
cients. They have been perfected by slow degrees. 
The Egyptians and Chaldeans studied the science of 
mensuration; and the first map — rude enough no 
doubt — is said to have been made by order of Sesos- 
tris when he became master of Egypt. Commerce 
and war have been the two parents of this science. 
Pharaoh Necho ordered the Phoenicians whom he sent 
round Africa, to make a survey of the coast. This they 
finished in three years. Darius caused the Ethiopic 
Sea and the mouth of the Indus to be surveyed. That 
maps were known in Greece you no doubt recollect 
from the pretty story of Socrates and Alcibiades. Anaxi- 
mander, a disciple of Thales, is said to have made 
the first sphere, and first delineated what was then 
known of the countries of the earth. He flourished 
547 years before Christ. Herodotus mentions a map 
of brass or copper which was presented by Aristagora's, 
tyrant of Miletus, to Cleomenes, king of Sparta, in 
which he had described the known world with its seas 
and rivers. Alexander the Great, in his expedition into 
6 



82 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 

Asia, took two geographers with him ; and from their 
itineraries many things have been copied by succeeding 
writers. 

From Greece the science of geography passed to 
Rome. The enlightened policy of the Romans culti- 
vated it as a powerful means of extending and secur- 
ing their dominion. One of the first things they did 
was to make roads, for which it was necessary to have 
the country measured. They had a custom when they 
had conquered a country, to have a painted map of 
it always carried aloft in their triumphs. The great 
historian Polybius reconnoitred under a commission 
from Scipio Emilianus the coasts of Africa, Spain, and 
France, and measured the distances of Hannibal's 
march over the Alps and Pyrenees. Julius Caesar em- 
ployed men of science to survey and measure the 
globe ; and his own Commentaries show his attention 
to this part of knowledge. Strabo, a great geographer 
whose works are extant, flourished under Augustus ; 
Pomponius Mela, in the first century. 

Many of the Roman itineraries which are still extant 
show the systematic care which they bestowed on a 
science so necessary for the orderly distribution and 
government of their large dominions. But still it was 
late before geography was settled upon its true basis, 
— astronomical observations. The greater part of the 
early maps were laid down in a very loose, inaccurate 
manner; and where particular parts were done with 
the greatest care, yet if the longitude and latitude were 
wanting, their relative situation to the rest of the earth 
could not be known. Some attempts had indeed been 
made by Hipparchus and Posidonius, Greek philoso- 
phers, to settle the parallels of latitude by the length of 
the days ; but the foundation they had laid was neg- 
lected till the time of Ptolemy, who flourished at 
Alexandria about 150 years after Christ, under Adrian 
and Antoninus Pius. This is he from whom the Ptole- 



ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 83 

maic system took its name. He diligently compared 
and revised the ancient maps and charts, correcting 
their errors and supplying their defects by the reports 
of travellers and navigators, the measured or reputed 
distances of maps and itineraries, and astronomical cal- 
culations, all digested together ; he reduced geography 
to a regular system, and laid down the situation of 
places according to minutes and degrees of longitude 
and latitude as we now have them. His maps were in 
general use till the last three or four centuries, in which 
time the progress of the moderns in the knowledge of 
the globe we inhabit has thrown at a great distance all 
the ancient geographers. 

We are now, some few breaks and chasms excepted, 
pretty well acquainted with the outline of the globe, 
and with those parts of it with which we are connected 
by our commercial or political relations ; but we are 
still profoundly ignorant of the interior of Africa, and 
imperfectly acquainted with that of South America, and 
the western part of North America. We know little of 
Thibet and the central parts of Asia, and have as yet 
only touched upon the great continent of New Hol- 
land. 

The best ancient maps are those of D'Anville. It 
has required great learning and proportionate skill to 
bring together the scattered notices which are found in 
various authors, and to fix the position of places which 
have been long ago destroyed ; very often the geogra- 
pher has no other guide than the relation of the histo- 
rian, that such a place is within six or eight days' jour- 
ney from another place. In some instances the maps 
of Ptolemy are lately come into repute again, — as in 
his delineation of the course of the Niger, which is 
thought to be favored by modern discoveries. Major 
Rennel has done much to improve the geography of 
India. 

There are many valuable maps scattered in voyages 



*>4 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 

and travels, and many of the atlases contain a collec- 
tion sufficient for all common purposes ; but a com- 
plete collection of the best maps and charts, with plans 
of harbors, towns, &c. becomes an object of even 
princely expense. The French took the lead in this, 
as in some other branches of science. The late em- 
press of Russia caused a geographical survey to be 
taken of her dominions, which has much improved our 
knowledge of the north-eastern regions of Europe and 
Asia. We have now, however, both single maps and 
atlases which yield to none in accuracy or elegance. 

Yours affectionately. 



Letter IV. 



Dear Lydia, — Geography addresses itself to the eye, 
and is easily comprehended : to give a clear idea of 
chronology is somewhat more difficult. It is easy to 
define it by saying it gives an answer to the question, 
When was it done ? but the meaning of the when is 
not quite so obvious. A date is a very artificial thing, 
and the world had existed for a long course of cen- 
turies before men were aware of its use and necessity. 
When is a relative term ; the most natural application 
of it is, How long ago, reckoning backwards from the 
present moment. Thus, if you were to ask an Indian 
when such an event happened he would probably say 

— So many harvests ago, when I could but just reach 
the boughs of yonder tree ; — in the time of my father, 
grandfather, great-grandfather ; still making the time 
then present to him the date from which he sets out. 
Even where a different method is well understood, we 
use in more familiar life this natural kind of chronology, 

— The year before I was married, — When Henry, who 



ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 85 

is now live years old, was born, — The winter of the 
hard frost. These are the epochs which mark the an- 
nals of domestic life more readily and with greater 
clearness, so far as the real idea of time is concerned, 
than the year of our Lord, as long as these are all with- 
in the circle of our personal recollection. But when 
events are recorded, the relater may be forgotten, and 
when again occurs : "When did_ the historian live? I 
understand the relative chronology of his narration ; I 
know how the events of it follow one another ; but what 
is their relation to general chronology, to time as it re- 
lates to me and to other events? " 

To know the transactions of a particular reign, that 
of Cyrus for instance, in the regular order in which 
they happened in that reign, but not to know where 
to place them with respect to the history of other 
times and nations, is as if we had a very accurate map 
of a small island existing somewhere in the boundless 
ocean, and could lay down all the bearings and dis- 
tances of its several towns and villages, but for want of 
its longitude and latitude were ignorant of the relative 
position of the island itself. Chronology supplies this 
longitude and latitude, and fixes every event to its pre- 
cise point in the chart of universal time. It supplies 
a common measure by which I may compare the rela- 
ter of an event with myself, and his now or ten years 
ago with the present now or ten years, reckoning from 
the time in which I live. 

In order to find such a common measure, men have 
been led by degrees to fix upon some one known event, 
and to make that the centre from which, by regular 
distances, the different periods of time are reckoned, 
instead of making the present time, which is always 
varying, and every man's own existence, the centre. 

The first approach to such a mode of computing 
time is to date by the reigns of kings ; which, being 
public objects of great notoriety, seem to offer them- 



86 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 

selves with great advantage for such a purpose. The 
Scripture history, which is the earliest of histories, has 
no other than this kind of successive dates : " Now it 
came to pass in the fifth year of the king Hezekiah." 
" And the time that Solomon reigned in Jerusalem over 
all Israel was forty years : and Solomon slept with his 
fathers ; and Rehoboam his son reigned in his stead." 
From this method a regular chronology might certainly 
be deduced, if we had the whole unbroken series ; but 
unfortunately there are many gaps and chasms in his- 
tory ; and you easily see that if any links of the chain 
are wanting, the whole computation is rendered imper- 
fect. Besides, it requires a tedious calculation to bring 
it into comparison with other histories and events. To 
say that an event happened in the tenth year of the 
reign of King Solomon, gives you only an idea of the 
time relative to the histories of that king, but leaves you 
quite in the dark as to its relation with the time you 
live in, or with the events of the Roman history. 

We want therefore an universal date, like a lofty 
obelisk, seen by all the country round, from and to 
which every distance should be measured. The most 
obvious that oners itself for this purpose is the crea- 
tion of the world, an event equally interesting to all ; 
to us the beginning of time, and from which therefore 
time would flow regularly down in an unbroken stream 
from the earliest to the latest generations of the human 
race. This would probably therefore have been made 
use of, if the date of the creation itself could be ascer- 
tained with any exactness ; but as chronologers differ 
by more than a thousand years as to the time of that 
event, it is necessary previously to mention what sys- 
tem is made use of; which renders this era obscure 
and inconvenient. It has therefore been found more 
convenient, in fact, to take some known event within 
the limit of well authenticated history, and to reckon 
from that fixed point backwards and forwards. As we 



ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 87 

cannot find the head of the river, and know not its 
termination, we must raise a pillar upon its banks, and 
measure our distances from that, both up and down the 
stream. This event ought to be important, conspicuous, 
and as interesting as possible, that it may be generally 
received ; for it would spare a great deal of trouble in 
computation if all the world would make use of the 
same date. This however has never been the case, 
chance and national vanity having had their full share 
in settling them. 

The Greeks reckoned by olympiads, but not till 
more than sixty years after the death of Alexander 
the Great. The Olympic games were the most brill- 
iant assembly in Greece, the Greeks were very fond 
of them, they began 776 years before Christ, and each 
olympiad includes four years. Some of the earlier 
Greek historians digested their histories by ages, or 
by the succession of the priestesses of Juno at Argos ; 
others by the archons of Athens or the kings of Lace- 
daemon. Thucydides uses simply the beginning of 
the Peloponnesian war, the subject of his history ; for, 
writing to his contemporaries, it seems not to have 
occurred to him that another date would ever be 
necessary. The Arundelian marbles, composed sixty 
years after the death of Alexander the Great, reckon 
backwards from the then present time. 

The Roman era was the building of their city, the 
eternal city, as they loved to call it. 

The Mahometans date from the Hegira, or flight of 
Mahomet from Mecca, his birth-place, to Medina, 
A. D. 622 ; and they have this advantage, that they 
began almost immediately to use it. 

The era used all over the Christian world is the 
birth of Christ. This was adopted as a date about 
A. D. 360 ; and though there is an uncertainty of a 
few years, which are in dispute, the accuracy is suffi- 
cient for any present purpose. 



88 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 

The reign of Nabonassar, the first king of Babylon, 
of Yesdigerd, the last king of Persia, — who was con- 
quered by the Saracens, — and of the Seleucidae of 
Syria, have likewise furnished eras. 

Julius Scaliger 1 formed an era which he called the 
Julian Period, being a cycle of 7980 years, produced 
by multiplying several cycles into one another, so as 
to carry us back to a period 764 years before the crea- 
tion of the world. This era, standing out of all history, 
like the fulcrum which Archimedes wished for, and in- 
dependent of variation or possibility of mistake, was a 
very grand idea ; and in measuring everything by it- 
self, measured it by the eternal truth of the laws of the 
heavenly bodies. But it is not greatly employed, the 
common era serving all ordinary purposes. In modern 
histories the olympiads, Roman eras, and others, are 
reduced, in the margin, to the year of our Lord, or of 
the creation. 

Such is the nature of eras now in such common use 
that we can with difficulty conceive the confusion in 
which, for the want of them, all the early part of his- 
tory is involved, and the strenuous labors of the most 
learned men which have been employed in arranging 
them and reducing history to the order in which we 
now have it. 

The earliest history which we possess, as we have 
before observed, is that of the Jewish scriptures ; these 
carry us from the creation to about the time of Herod- 
otus : having no date, we are obliged to compute from 
generations, and to take the reigns of kings where they 
are given. But a great schism occurs at the very out- 
set. The Septuagint translation of the Mosaic history 
into Greek, which was made by order of Ptolemy Phila- 
delphus, differs from the Hebrew text by 1400 years 
from the creation to the birth of Abraham. 

1 Joseph Justus Scaliger, the son of Julius, was the inventor of the 
Julian period. 



ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 89 

The chronology of the Assyrian and Babylonish 
monarchies is involved in inextricable difficulties ; nor 
are we successful in harmonizing the Greek with the 
oriental writers of history. The Persian historians 
make no mention of the defeat of Xerxes by the 
Greeks, or that of Darius by Alexander. All nations 
have had the vanity to make their origin mount as 
high as possible ; and they have often invented series 
of kings, or have reckoned the contemporary indi- 
viduals of different dynasties as following each other 
in regular succession, as if one should take the kings 
of the Heptarchy singly instead of together. 

You will perhaps ask, if we have no eras, what have 
we to reckon by? We have generations and succes- 
sions of kings. Sir Isaac Newton, who joined wonder- 
ful sagacity to profound learning and astronomical 
skill, made very great reforms in the ancient chronology. 
He pointed out the difference between generations and 
successions of kings. A generation is not the life of 
man ; it is the time that elapses before a man sees his 
successor ; and this, reckoning to the birth of the eld- 
est son, is estimated at about thirty years. The succes- 
sion of kings would seem at first sight to be the same, 
and so it had been reckoned ; but Newton corrected 
it, on the principle that kings are often cut off prema- 
turely in turbulent times, or are succeeded either by 
their brothers, or by their uncle's, or others older than 
themselves. The lines of kings of France, England, 
and other countries within the range of exact chronol- 
ogy, confirmed this principle. He therefore rectified 
all the ancient chronology according to it; and with 
the assistance of astronomical observations he found 
reason to allow, as the average length of a reign, about 
eighteen or twenty years. 

But after all, great part of the chronology of ancient 
history is founded upon conjecture and clouded with 
uncertainty. 



90 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 

Although I recommend to you a constant attention 
to chronology, I do not think it desirable to load your 
memory with a great number of specific dates, both 
because it would be too great a burden on the reten- 
tive powers, and because it is, after all, not the best 
way of attaining clear ideas on the subjects of history. 
In order to do this, it is necessary to have in your 
mind the relative situation of other countries at the 
time of any event recorded in one of them. For 
instance, if you have got by heart the dates of the 
accession of the kings of Europe, and want to know 
whether John lived at the time of the crusades, and in 
what state the Greek empire was, you cannot tell with- 
out an arithmetical process, which perhaps you may 
not be quick enough to make. You cannot tell 
whether Constantinople had been taken by the Turks 
when the Sicilian Vespers happened ; for each fact is 
insulated in your mind ; and indeed your dates give 
you only the dry catalogue of accessions. Nay, you" 
may read separate histories, and yet not bring them 
together if the countries be remote. Each exists in 
your mind separately, and you have at no time the 
state of the world. But you ought to have an idea at 
once of the whole world, as far as history will give it. 
You do not see truly what the Greeks were, except you 
know that the British Isles were then barbarous. 

A few dates therefore, perfectly learned, may suffice, 
and will serve as landmarks to prevent your going far 
astray in the rest : but it will be highly useful to con- 
nect the histories you read in such a manner in your 
own mind, that you may be able to refer from one to 
the other, and to form them all into a whole. For this 
purpose, it is very desirable to observe and retain in 
your memory certain coincidences, which may link, as it 
were, two nations together. Thus you may remember 
that Haroun al Raschid sent to Charlemagne the first 
clock that was seen in Europe. If you are reading the 



ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 91 

history of Greece when it flourished most, and want to 
know what the Romans were doing at the same time, 
you may recollect that they sent to Greece for instruc- 
tion when they wanted to draw up the laws of the 
Twelve Tables. Solon and Crcesus connect the history 
of Lesser Asia with that of Greece. Egbert was brought 
up in the court of Charlemagne ; Philip Augustus of 
France and Richard I. of England fought in the same 
crusade against Saladin. Queen Elizabeth received the 
French ambassador in deep mourning after the massa- 
cre of St. Bartholomew. 

It may be desirable to keep one kingdom as a meter 
for the rest. Take for this purpose first the Jews, then 
the Greeks, the Romans, and, because it is so, our own 
country : then harmonize and connect all the other 
dates with these. 

That the literary history of a nation may be con- 
nected with the political, study also biography, and en- 
deavor to link men of science and literature and artists 
with political characters. Thus Hippocrates was sent 
for to the plague of Athens ; Leonardo da Vinci died 
in the arms of. Francis I. Often an anecdote, a smart 
saying, will indissolubly fix a date. 

Sometimes you may take a long reign, as that of 
Elizabeth or Louis XIV., and making that the centre, 
mark all the contemporary sovereigns, and also the 
men of letters. Another way is, to make a line of life, 
composed of distinguished characters who touch each 
other. It will be of great service to you in this view 
to study Dr. Priestley's biographical chart ; and of still 
greater, to make one for yourself, and fill it by degrees, 
as your acquaintance with history extends. Marriages 
connect the history of different kingdoms ; as those of 
Mary Queen of Scots and Francis II., Philip II. and 
Mary of England. 

These are the kind of dates which make every- 
thing lie in the mind in its proper order ; they also 



92 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 

take fast hold of it. If you forget the exact date by 
years, you have nothing left ; but of circumstances 
you never lose all idea. As we come nearer to our 
own times, dates must be more exact. A few years 
more or less signify little in the destruction of Troy, 
if we knew it exactly; but the conclusion of the 
American war should be accurately known, or it will 
throw other events near it into confusion. 

In so extensive a study no auxiliary is to be neg- 
lected. Poetry impresses both geography and history 
in a most agreeable manner upon those who are fond 
of it. Thus, 

"... fair Austria spreads her mournful charms, 
The queen, the beauty, sets the world in arms." 

A short, lively character in verse is never forgotten : 

" From Macedonia's madman to the Swede." 

Historic plays deeply impress, but should be read with 
caution. We take our ideas from Shakespeare more 
than history : he, indeed, copied pretty exactly from 
the chroniclers, but other dramatic writers have taken 
great liberties both with characters and events. 

Painting is a good auxiliary ; and though in this 
country history is generally read before we see pic- 
tures, they mutually illustrate one another : painting 
also shows the costume. In France, where pictures 
are more accessible, there is more knowledge gener- 
ally diffused of common history. Many have learned 
Scripture history from the rude figures on Dutch tiles. 

I will conclude with the remark, that though the 
beginner in history may and ought to study dates and 
epochs for his guidance, chronology can never be 
fully possessed till after history has been long studied 
and carefully digested. 

Farewell ; and believe me 

Yours affectionately. 



FASHION. 



A VISION. 



Young as you are, my dear Flora, you cannot but 
have noticed the eagerness with which questions rela- 
tive to civil liberty have been discussed in every 
society. To break the shackles of oppression, and 
assert the native rights of man, is esteemed by many 
among the noblest efforts of heroic virtue ; but vain 
is the possession of political liberty if there exists a 
tyrant of our own creation, who, without law or rea- 
son, or even external force, exercises over us the most 
despotic authority; whose jurisdiction is extended 
over every part of private and domestic life ; controls 
our pleasures, fashions our garb, cramps our motions, 
fills our lives with vain cares and restless anxiety. 
The worst slavery is that which we voluntarily impose 
upon ourselves ; and no chains are so cumbrous and 
galling as those which we are pleased to wear by way 
of grace and ornament. Musing upon this idea gave 
rise to the following dream or vision : 

Methought I was in a country of the strangest and 
most singular appearance I had ever beheld : the riv- 
ers were forced into jet-d'eaus, and wasted in artificial 
water-works; the lakes were fashioned by the hand 
of art ; the roads were sanded with spar and gold- 
dust ; the trees all bore the marks of the shears, they 
were bent and twisted into the most whimsical forms, 
and connected together by festoons of ribbon and silk 
fringe ; the wild flowers were transplanted into vases 
of fine china, and painted with artificial white and red. 

The disposition of the ground was full of fancy, 
but grotesque and unnatural in the highest degree ; it 



94 FASHION. 

was all highly cultivated, and bore the marks of won- 
derful industry ; but among its various productions I 
could hardly discern one that was of any use. 

My attention, however, was soon called off from 
the scenes of inanimate life, by the view of the in- 
habitants, whose form and appearance were so very 
preposterous, and, indeed, so unlike anything human, 
that I fancied myself transported to the country of 

" The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads 
Do grow beneath their shoulders : " 

for the heads of many of these people were swelled 
to an astonishing size, and seemed to be placed in the 
middle of their bodies. Of some, the ears were dis- 
tended till they hung upon the shoulders ; and of 
others, the shoulders were raised till they met the ears : 
there was not one free from some deformity, or mon- 
strous swelling, in one part or other; either it was 
before, or behind, or about the hips, or the arms were 
puffed up to an unusual thickness, or the throat was 
increased to the same size with the poor objects once 
exhibited under the name of the monstrous Craws : 
some had no necks ; others had necks that reached 
almost to their waists ; the bodies of some were bloated 
up to such a size, that they could scarcely enter a pair 
of folding doors ; and others had suddenly sprouted 
up to such a disproportionate height, that they could 
not sit upright in their loftiest carriages. 

Many shocked me with the appearance of being 
nearly cut in two, like a wasp ; and I was alarmed at 
the sight of a few, in whose faces, otherwise very fair 
and healthy, I discovered an eruption of black spots, 
which I feared was the fatal sign of some pestilential 
disorder. 

The sight of these various and uncouth deformities 
inspired me with much pity ; which however was soon 
changed into disgust, when I perceived, with great 



FASHION. 95 

surprise, that every one of these unfortunate men and 
women was exceeding proud of his own peculiar deform- 
ity, and endeavored to attract my notice to it as much 
as possible. A lady, in particular, who had a swelling 
under her throat, larger than any goitre in the Valais, 
and which, I am sure, by its enormous projection, pre- 
vented her from seeing the path she walked in, brushed 
by me with an air of the greatest self-complacency, 
and asked me if she was not a charming creature. 

But by this time I found myself surrounded by an 
immense crowd, who were all pressing along in one 
direction ; and I perceived that I was drawn along 
with them by an irresistible impulse, which grew 
stronger every moment, I asked whither we were hur- 
rying with such eager steps ; and was told that we 
were going to the court of Queen Fashion, the great 
Diana whom all the world worshippeth. I would have 
retired, but felt myself impelled to go on, though with- 
out being sensible of any outward force. 

When I came to the royal presence, I was astonished 
at the magnificence I saw around me. The queen 
was sitting on a throne, elegantly fashioned in the form 
of a shell, and inlaid with gems and mother-of-pearl. 
It was supported by a chameleon, formed of a single 
emerald. She was dressed in a light robe of change- 
able silk, which fluttered about her in a profusion of 
fantastic folds, that imitated the form of clouds, and 
like them were continually changing their appearance. 
In one hand she held a rouge-box, and in the other 
one of those optical glasses which distort figures in 
length or in breadth, according to the position in which 
they are held. At the foot of the throne was displayed 
a profusion of the richest productions of every quarter 
of the globe, tributes from land and sea, from every 
animal and plant ; perfumes, sparkling stones, drops 
of pearl, chains of gold, webs of the finest linen ; 
wreaths of flowers, the produce of art, which vied 



96 FASHION. 

with the most delicate productions of nature ; forests 
of feathers waving their brilliant colors in the air and 
canopying the throne ; glossy silks, network of lace, 
silvery ermine, soft folds of vegetable wool, rustling 
paper, and shining spangles ; — the whole intermixed 
with pendants and streamers of the gayest tinctured 
ribbon. 

All these together made so brilliant an appearance 
that my eyes were at first dazzled, and it was some 
time before I recovered myself enough to observe the 
ceremonial of the court. Near the throne, and its 
chief supports, stood the queen's two prime ministers, 
Caprice on one side, and Vanity on the other. Two 
officers seemed chiefly busy among the attendants. 
One of them was a man with a pair of shears in his 
hand and a goose by his side, — a mysterious em- 
blem, of which I could not fathom the meaning : he 
sat cross-legged, like the great lama of the Tartars. 
He was busily employed in cutting out coats and gar- 
ments ; not, however, like Dorcas, for the poor, — nor, 
indeed, did they seem intended for any mortal what- 
ever, so ill were they adapted to the shape of the hu- 
man body. Some of the garments were extravagantly 
large, others as preposterously small : of others, it was 
difficult to guess to what part of the person they were 
meant to be applied. Here were coverings which did 
not cover ; ornaments which disfigured ; and defences 
against the weather, more slight and delicate than 
what they were meant to defend ; but all were eagerly 
caught up, without distinction, by the crowd of votaries 
who were waiting to receive them. 

The other officer was dressed in a white succinct 
linen garment, like a priest of the lower order. He 
moved in a cloud of incense more highly scented than 
the breezes of Arabia ; he carried a tuft of the whitest 
down of the swan in one hand, and in the other a small 
iron instrument heated red-hot, which he brandished 



FASHION. 9 7 

in the air. It was with infinite concern I beheld the 
Graces, bound at the foot of the throne, and obliged 
to officiate as handmaids under the direction of these 
two officers. 

I now began to inquire by what laws this queen 
governed her subjects, but soon found her administra- 
tion was that of the most arbitrary tyrant ever known. 
Her laws are exactly the reverse of those of the Medes 
and Persians ; for they are changed every day, and 
every hour : and what makes the matter still more per- 
plexing, they are in no written code, nor even made 
public by proclamation : they are promulgated only by 
whispers, an obscure sign, or turn of the eye, which 
those only who have the happiness to stand near the 
queen can catch with any degree of precision : yet 
the smallest transgression of the laws is severely pun- 
ished ; not indeed by fines or imprisonment, but by a 
sort of interdict similar to that which in superstitious 
times was laid by the Pope on disobedient princes, 
and which operated in such a manner that no one 
would eat, drink, or associate with the forlorn culprit, 
and he was almost deprived of the use of fire and 
water. 

This difficulty of discovering the will of the goddess 
occasioned so much crowding to be near the throne, 
such jostling and elbowing of one another, that I was 
glad to retire and observe what I could among the 
scattered crowd : and the first thing I took notice of 
was various instruments of torture which everywhere 
met my eyes. Torture has in most other governments 
of Europe been abolished by the mild spirit of the 
times ; but it reigns here in full force and terror. I 
saw • officers of this cruel court employed in boring 
holes with red-hot wires, in the ears, nose, and various 
parts of the body, and then distending them with the 
weight of metal chains, or stones cut into a variety of 
shapes : some had invented a contrivance for cramp- 



98 FASHION. 

ing the feet in such a manner that many are lamed by 
it for their whole lives. Others I saw, slender and 
delicate in their form and naturally nimble as the 
young antelope, who were obliged to carry constantly 
about with them a cumbrous unwieldy machine, of a 
pyramidal form, several ells in circumference. 

But the most common and one of the worst instru- 
ments of torture was a small machine armed with fish- 
bone and ribs of steel, wide at top but extremely small 
at bottom. In this detestable invention the queen or- 
ders the bodies of her female subjects to be inclosed : 
it is then, by means of silk cords, drawn closer and 
closer at intervals, till the unhappy victim can scarcely 
breathe ; and they have found the exact point that 
can be borne without fainting, which, however, not un- 
frequently happens. The flesh is often excoriated, and 
the very ribs bent, by this cruel process. Yet what as- 
tonished me more than all the rest, these sufferings are 
borne with a degree of fortitude which, in a better cause, 
would immortalize a hero or canonize a saint. The 
Spartan who suffered the fox to eat into his vitals, did 
not bear pain with greater resolution : and as the Spar- 
tan mothers brought their children to be scourged at 
the altar of Diana, so do the mothers here bring their 
children, — and chiefly those whose tender sex one would 
suppose excused them from such exertions, — and early 
inure them to this cruel discipline. But neither Spar- 
tan, nor Dervise, nor Bonze, nor Carthusian monk, ever 
exercised more unrelenting severities over their bodies, 
than these young zealots : indeed the first lesson they are 
taught, is a surrender of their own inclinations and an 
implicit obedience to the commands of the goddess. 

But they have, besides, a more solemn kind of ded- 
ication, something similar to the rite of confirmation. 
When a young woman approaches the marriageable 
age, she is led to the altar : her hair, which before 
fell loosely about her shoulders, is tied up in a tress, 



fashion: 99 

sweet oils drawn from roses and spices are poured 
upon it ; she is involved in a cloud of scented dust, 
and invested with ornaments under which she can 
scarcely move. After this solemn ceremony, which is 
generally concluded by a dance round the altar, the 
damsel is obliged to a still stricter conformity than be- 
fore to the laws and customs of the court, and any de- 
viation from them is severely punished. 

The courtiers of Alexander, it is said, flattered him 
by carrying their heads on one side, because he had 
the misfortune to have a wry neck ; but all adulation 
is poor, compared to what is practised in this court. 
Sometimes the queen will lisp and stammer, — and 
then none of her attendants can speak plain ; some- 
times she chooses to totter as she walks, — and then 
they are seized with sudden lameness : according as 
she appears half undressed, or veiled from head to 
foot, her subjects become a procession of nuns, or a 
troop of Bacchanalian nymphs. I could not help ob- 
serving, however, that those who stood at the greatest 
distance from the throne were the most extravagant in 
their imitation. 

I was by this time thoroughly disgusted with the 
character of a sovereign at once so light and so cruel, 
so fickle and so arbitrary, when one who stood next 
me bade me attend to still greater contradictions in her 
character, and such as might serve to soften the indig- 
nation I had conceived. He took me to the back of 
the throne, and made me take notice of a number of 
industrious poor, to whom the queen was secretly dis- 
tributing bread. I saw the Genius of Commerce do- 
ing her homage, and discovered the British cross woven 
into the insignia of her dignity. 

While I was musing on these things, a murmur arose 
among the crowd, and I was told that a young votary 
was approaching. I turned my head, and saw a light 
figure, the folds of whose garment showed the elegant 



ioo DESCRIPTION OF TWO SISTERS. 

turn of the limbs they covered, tripping along with 
the step of a nymph. I soon knew it to be yourself : 
— I saw you led up to the altar, — I saw your beautiful 
hair tied in artificial tresses, and its bright gloss stained 
with colored dust, — I even fancied I beheld produced 
the dreadful instruments of torture ; — my emotions in- 
creased : — I cried out, " Oh, spare her ! spare my 
Flora ! " with so much vehemence that I awaked. 



DESCRIPTION OF TWO SISTERS. 

Dear Cousin, — Our conversation last night upon 
beauties put me in mind of two charming sisters, with 
whom I think you must be acquainted as well as I, 
though they were not in your list of belles. Their 
charms are very different however ; the youngest is 
generally thought the handsomest, and yet other beau- 
ties shine more in her company than in her sister's ; 
whether it be that her gay looks diffuse a lustre on all 
around, while her sister's beauty has an air of majesty 
which strikes with awe, or that the younger sets every 
one she is with in the fairest light, and discovers per- 
fections which were before concealed, whilst the elder 
seems only solicitous to set off her own person and 
throw a shade upon every one else. Yet, what you will 
think strange, it is she who is generally preferred for a 
confidant ; for her sister, with all her amiable qualities, 
cannot keep a secret. 

Oh, what an eye the younger has, as if she could 
look a person through ; yet modest is her countenance, 
even and composed her pace, and she treads so softly, 
— " smooth sliding without step," as Milton says 
She seldom meets you without blushing, — her sister 
cannot blush, — she dresses very gayly, sometimes in 



DESCRIPTION OF TWO SISTERS. IOI 

clouded silks, which indeed she first brought into fash- 
ion, but blue is her most becoming color, and she gen- 
erally appears in it. Now and then, she wears a very 
rich scarf, or sash, braided with all manner of colors. 

The elder, like the Spanish ladies, dresses in black 
in order to set off her jewels, of which she has a greater 

quantity than Lady , and, if I might judge, much 

finer. I cannot pretend to give you a catalogue of 
them ; they are of all sizes, and set in all figures : her 
enemies say she does well to adorn her dusky brow 
with brilliants, and that without them she would be but 
little taken notice of; but certain it is, she has inspired 
more serious and enthusiastic passions than her sister, 
whose admirers are often fops more in love with them- 
selves than with her. A learned clergyman some time 
ago fell deeply in love with her, and wrote a fine copy 
of verses on her ; and what was worst, her sister could 
not go into company without hearing them. 

One thing they quite agree in, — not to go out of 
their way or alter their pace for anybody. Once or 
twice indeed I have heard that the younger . . . but it 
was a great while ago, and she was not so old then, 
and was more complaisant. She is generally waked 
with a fine concert of music, the other prefers a good 
solo. 

But see, the younger beauty looks pale and sick, — 
she faints, — she is certainly dying, — a slight blush 
still upon her cheek, — it fades, fast, fast. — She is 
gone, yet a sweet smile overspreads her countenance. 
Will she revive ? Shall I ever see her again ? Who can 
tell me ? 



P I C-N I C. 



Pray, mamma, what is the meaning of pic-nic 1 I 
have heard lately once or twice of a pic-nic supper, and 
I cannot think what it means ; I looked for the word in 
Johnson's Dictionary and could not find it. 

I should wonder if you had; the word was not 
coined in Johnson's time ; and if it had been, I believe 
he would have disdained to insert it among the legiti- 
mate words of the language. I cannot tell you the 
derivation of the phrase. I believe pic-nic is originally 
a cant word, and was first applied to a supper or other 
meal in which the entertainment is not provided by 
any one person, but each of the guests furnishes his 
dish. In a pic-nic supper one supplies the fowls, an- 
other the fish, another the wine and fruit, &c. ; and 
they all sit down together and enjoy it. 

A very sociable way of making an entertainment. 

Yes, and I would have you observe, that the princi- 
ple of it may be extended to many other things. No 
one has a right to be entertained gratis in society ; he 
must expend, if he wishes to enjoy. Conversation, 
particularly, is a pic-nic feast, where every one is to 
contribute something, according to his genius and abil- 
ity. Different talents and acquirements compose the 
different dishes of the entertainment, and the greater 
variety, the better ; but every one must bring some- 
thing, for society will not tolerate any one long who 
lives wholly at the expense of his neighbors. Did not 
you observe how agreeably we w.ere entertained at 
Lady Isabella's party last night ? 



PIC-NIC. 103 

Yes : one of the young ladies sung, and another exhib- 
ited her drawings, and a gentleman told some very- 
good stories. 

True : another lady who is very much in the fashion- 
able world gave us a great deal of anecdote ; Dr. R., 
who is just returned from the continent, gave us an 
interesting account of the state of Germany; and in 
another part of the room a cluster was gathered round 
an Edinburgh student and a young Oxonian, who were 
holding a lively debate on the power of galvanism. 
But Lady Isabella herself was the charm of the party. 

I think she talked very little ; and I do not recollect 
anything she said which was particularly striking. 

That is true. But it was owing to her address and 
attention to her company that others talked and were 
heard by turns ; that the modest were encouraged and 
drawn out, and those inclined to be noisy restrained 
and kept in order. She blended and harmonized the 
talents of each ; brought those together who were 
likely to be agreeable to each other, and gave us no 
more of herself than was necessary to set off others. I 
noticed particularly her good offices to an accomplished 
but very bashful lady and a reserved man of science, 
who wished much to be known to one another, but 
who would never have been so without her introduc- 
tion. As soon as she had fairly engaged them in an 
interesting conversation, she left them, regardless of 
her own entertainment, and seated herself by poor Mr. 

, purely because he was sitting in a corner and no 

one attended to him. You know that in chemical 
preparations two substances often require a third, to 
enable them to mix and unite together. Lady Isabella 
possesses this amalgamating power : — this is what she 
brings to the pic-nic. I should add, that two or three 
times I observed she dexterously changed topics, and 
suppressed stories which were likely to bear hard on 
the profession or connections of some of the company. 



104 PIC-NIC. 

In short, the party which was so agreeable under her 
harmonizing influence, would have had quite a differ- 
ent aspect without her. These merits, however, might 
easily escape a young observer. But I dare say you did 
not fail to notice Sir Henry B 's lady, who was de- 
claiming with so much enthusiasm, in the midst of a 
circle of gentlemen which she had drawn around her, 
upon the beau ideal. 

No indeed, mamma ; I never heard so much fire 
and feeling : — and what a flow of elegant language ! I 
do not wonder her eloquence was so much admired. 

She has a great deal of eloquence and taste : she 
has travelled, and is acquainted with the best works of 
art. I am not sure, however, whether the gentlemen 
were admiring most her declamation or the fine turn 
of her hands and arms. She has a different attitude 
for every sentiment. Some observations which she 
made upon the beauty of statues seemed to me to go 
to the verge of what a modest female will allow herself 
to say upon such subjects, — but she has travelled. 
She was sensible that she could not fail to gain by 
the conversation while beauty of form was the subject 
of it. 

Pray what did , the great poet, bring to the 

pic-nic ? — for I think he hardly opened his mouth. 

He brought his fame. Many would be gratified 
with merely seeing him who had entertained them in 
their closets ; and he who had so entertained them had 
a right to be himself entertained in that way which he 
had no talent for joining in. Let every one, I repeat, 
bring to the entertainment something of the best he 
possesses, and the pic-nic table will seldom fail to af- 
ford a plentiful banquet. 



WRITTEN ON A MARBLE. 

The world 's something bigger, 

But just of this figure, 
And speckled with mountains and seas ; 
Your heroes are overgrown schoolboys 
Who scuffle for empires and toys, 
And kick the poor ball as they please. 
Now Caesar, now Pompey, gives law ; 

And Pharsalia's plain, 

Though heaped with the slain, 

Was only a game at taw. 



LETTER FROM GRIMALKIN TO 
SELIMA. 

My dear Selima, — As you are now going to quit 
the foste*ring cares of a mother, to enter, young as you 
are, into the wide world, and conduct yourself by your 
own prudence, I cannot forbear giving you some part- 
ing advice in this important era of your life. 

Your extreme youth, and permit me to add, the 
giddiness incident to that period, make me particularly 
anxious for your welfare. In the first place, then, let 
me beg you to remember that life is not to be spent in 
running after your own tail. Remember you were sent 
into the world to catch rats and mice. It is for this 
you are furnished with sharp claws, whiskers to improve 
your scent, and with such an elasticity and spring in 
your limbs. Never lose sight of this great end of your 
existence. When you and your sister are jumping over 



106 LETTER FROM GRIMALKIN TO SELIMA. 

my back, and kicking and scratching one another's 
noses, you are indulging the propensities of your nature, 
and perfecting yourselves in agility and dexterity. But 
remember that these frolics are only preparatory to the 
grand scene of action. Life is long, but youth is short. 
The gayety of the kitten will most assuredly go off. 
In a few months, nay even weeks, those spirits and that 
playfulness, which now exhilarate all who behold you, 
will subside ; and I beg you to reflect how contemptible 
you will be, if you should have the gravity of an old cat 
without that usefulness which alone can ensure respect 
and protection for your maturer years. 

In the first place, my dear child, obtain a command 
over your appetites, and take care that no tempting 
opportunity ever induces you to make free with the 
pantry or larder of your mistress. You may possibly 
slip in and out without observation ; you may lap a 
little cream, or run away with a chop without its being 
missed : but depend upon it, such practices sooner or 
later will be found out; and if in a single instance 
you are discovered, everything which is missing will be 
charged upon you. If Mrs. Betty or Mrs. Susan chooses 
to regale herself with a cold breast of chicken which was 
set by for supper, — you will have clawed it ; or a rasp- 
berry cream, — you will have lapped it. Nor is this all. 
If you have once thrown down a single cup in your 
eagerness to get out of the storeroom, every china plate 
and dish that is ever broken in the house, you will have 
broken it ; and though your back promises to be pretty 
broad, it will not be broad enough for all the mischief 
that will be laid upon it. Honesty you will find is the 
best policy. 

Remember that the true pleasures of life consist in 
the exertion of our own powers. If you were to feast 
every day upon roasted partridges from off Dresden 
china, and dip your whiskers in syllabubs and creams, 
it could never give you such true enjoyment as the 



LETTER FROM GRIMALKIN TO SELIMA. 107 

commonest food procured by the labor of your own 
paws. When you have once tasted the exquisite pleas- 
ure of catching and playing with a mouse, you will 
despise the gratification of artificial dainties. 

I do not, with some moralists, call cleanliness a half 
virtue only. Remember, it is one of the most essential 
to your sex and station; and if ever you should fail in 
it, I sincerely hope Mrs. Susan will bestow upon you a 
good whipping. 

Pray do not spit at strangers who do you the honor 
to take notice of you. It is very uncivil behavior, 
and I have often wondered that kittens of any breeding 
should be guilty of it. 

Avoid thrusting your nose into every closet and cup- 
board, — unless indeed you smell mice ; in which case 
it is very becoming. 

Should you live, as I hope you will, to see the chil- 
dren of your patroness, you must prepare yourself 
to exercise that branch of fortitude which consists in 
patient endurance : for you must expect to be lugged 
about, pinched and pulled by the tail, and played a 
thousand tricks with ; all which you must bear without 
putting out a claw : for you may depend upon it, if you 
attempt the least retaliation you will forever lose the 
favor of your mistress. 

Should there be favorites in the house, such as tame 
birds, dormice, or a squirrel, great will be your tempta- 
tions. In such a circumstance, if the cage hangs low 
and the door happens to be left open, — to govern your 
appetite I know will be a difficult task. But remember 
that nothing is impossible to the governing mind ; and 
that there are instances upon record of cats who, in the 
exercise of self-government, have overcome the strong- 
est propensities of their nature. 

If you would make yourself agreeable to your mis- 
tress, you must observe times and seasons. You must 
not startle her by jumping upon her in a rude manner : 



108 LETTER FROM GRIMALKIN TO SELIMA. 

and above all, be sure to sheathe your claws when you 
lay your paw upon her lap. 

You have, like myself, been brought up in the coun- 
try, and I fear you may regret the amusements it af- 
fords ; such as catching butterflies, climbing trees, and 
watching birds from the windows, which I have done 
with great delight for a whole morning together. But 
these pleasures are not essential. A town life has also 
its gratifications. You may make many pleasant ac- 
quaintances in the neighboring courts and alleys. A 
concert upon the tiles in a fine moonlight summer's 
evening may at once gratify your ear and your social 
feelings. Rats and mice are . to be met with every- 
where : and at any rate you have reason to be thank- 
ful that so creditable a situation has been found for you ; 
without which you must have followed the fate of your 
poor brothers, and with a stone about your neck have 
been drowned in the next pond. 

It is only when you have kittens yourself that you 
will be able to appreciate the cares of a mother. How 
unruly have you been when I wanted to wash your 
face ! how undutiful in galloping about the room in- 
stead of coming immediately when I called you ! But 
nothing can subdue the affections of a parent. Being 
grave and thoughtful in my nature, and having the ad- 
vantage of residing in a literary family, I have mused 
deeply on the subject of education ; I have pored by 
moonlight over Locke, and Edgeworth, and Mrs. Ham- 
ilton, and the laws of association : but after much cogi- 
tation I am only convinced of this, that kittens will be 
kittens, and old cats old cats. May you, my dear 
child, be an honor to all your relations and to the whole 
feline race. May you see your descendants of the 
fiftieth generation. And when you depart this life, may 
the lamentations of your kindred exceed in pathos the 
melody of an Irish howl. 

Signed by the paw of your affectionate mother, 

Grimalkin. 



ALLEGORY ON SLEEP. 



My dear Miss D., — The affection I bear you, and 
the sincere regard I have for your welfare, will, I hope, 
excuse the liberty I am going to take in remonstrating 
against the indulgence of a too partial affection which 
I see with sorrow is growing upon you every day. 

You start at the imputation : but hear me with pa- 
tience ; and if your own heart, your own reason, does 
not bear witness to what I say, then blame my sus- 
picions and my freedom. 

But need I say much to convince you of the power 
this favored lover, whose name I will not mention, 
has over you, when at this very moment he absorbs 
all your faculties, and engrosses every power of your 
mind to such a degree as leaves it doubtful whether 
this friendly admonition will reach your ear, lost as 
you are in the soft enchantment? Is it not evident 
that in his presence you are dead to everything 
around you ? The voice of your nearest friends, your 
most sprightly and once-loved amusements, cannot 
draw your attention ; you breathe, you exist, only for 
him. And when at length he has left you, do not I 
behold you languid, pale, bearing in your eyes and 
your whole carriage the marks of his power over you ? 
When we parted last night, did not I see you impa- 
tient to sink into his arms? Have you never been 
caught reclined on his bosom, on a soft carpet of 
flowers, on the banks of a purling stream, where the 
murmuring of the waters, the whispering of the trees, 
the silence and solitude of the place, and the luxuri- 



HO ALLEGORY ON SLEEP. 

ous softness of everything around you, favored his 
approach and disposed you to listen to his addresses? 
Nay, in that sacred temple which ought to be dedicated 
to higher affections, has he never stolen insensibly on 
your mind, and sealed your ears against the voice of 
the preacher, though never so persuasive? Has not 
his influence over you greatly increased within these 
few weeks ? Does he not every day demand, do you 
not every day sacrifice to him, a larger portion of your 
time? 

Not content with devoting to him those hours 

" When business, noise, and day are fled," 

does he not encroach upon the morning watches, 
break in upon your studies, and detain your mind 
from the pursuit of knowledge and the pursuit of 
pleasure, — of all pleasure but the enervating indul- 
gence of your passion ? 

Diana, who still wishes to number you in her train, 
invites you to join in her lively sports ; for you Aurora 
bathes the new-born rose in dew, and streaks the 
clouds with gold and crimson ; and Youth and Health 
offer a thousand innocent pleasures to your accept- 
ance. 

And, let me ask you, what can you find in the com- 
pany of him with whom you are thus enamored, to 
make you amends for all that you give up for his sake ? 
Does he entertain you with anything but the most in- 
coherent rhapsodies, the most romantic and visionary 
tales? To believe the strange, improbable, and con- 
tradictory things he tells you, requires a credulity be- 
yond that of an infant. If he has ever spoken truth, 
it is mixed with so much falsehood and obscurity, that 
it is esteemed the certain sign of a weak mind to be 
much affected with what he says. 

As I wish to draw a true portrait, I will by no 
means disguise his good qualities ; and shall therefore 






ALLEGORY ON SLEEP. ill 

allow that he is a friend to the unhappy and the friend- 
less, that his breast is the only pillow for misfortune 
to repose on, and that his approaches are so gentle 
and insinuating as in some moments to be almost ir- 
resistible. If he is at all disposed to partiality, it is 
in favor of the poor and mean, with whom he is 
generally thought to associate more readily than with 
the rich. Yet he dispenses favors to all : and those 
who are most disposed to rebel against his power and 
treat him with contempt, could never render them- 
selves quite independent of him. 

He is of a very ancient family, and came in long 
before the Conquest. He has a half-brother, some- 
what younger than himself, who has made his name 
very famous in the world : he is a tall meagre figure, 
with a ghastly air and a most forbidding countenance ; 
he delights in slaughter, and has destroyed more men 
than Caesar or Alexander. 

He who is the subject of my letter is fond of peace, 
sleek and corpulent, with a mild heavy eye and a 
physiognomy perfectly placid ; yet with all this oppo- 
sition of feature and character, there is such a resem- 
blance between them (as often happens in family 
likenesses), that in some lights and attitudes you can 
scarce distinguish the one from the other. 

To finish the description of your lover, — he is 
generally crowned with flowers, but of the most lan- 
guid kind, such as poppies and cowslips ; and he is 
attended by a number of servants, thin and light-footed, 
to whom he does not give the same livery ; for some 
are dressed in the gayest, others in the most gloomy 
habits imaginable, but all fantastic 

He is subject to many strange antipathies, and as 
strange likings. The warbling of the lark, to others 
so agreeable, is to him the harshest discord, and Peter 
could not start more at the crowing of a cock. The 
slightest accident, the cry of an infant, a mouse behind 



1 1 2 HYMN. 

the wainscot, will oftentimes totally disconcert and 
put him to flight, and at other times he will not regard 
the loudest thunder. His favorite animal is the dor- 
mouse, and his music the dropping of water, the low 
tinkling of a distant bell, the humming of bees, and the 
hollow sound of the wind rustling through the trees. 

But I have now said enough to let you into the 
true character of this powerful enchanter. You will 
answer, I know, to all this, that he begins by enslav- 
ing every faculty that might resist him, and that his 
power must be already broken before Reason can 
exert herself. You will perhaps likewise tell me (and 
I must acknowledge the justice of the retort) that 
I myself, though my situation affords a thousand rea- 
sons to resist him which do not take place with you, 
have been but too sensible of his attractions. 

With blushes I confess the charge. At this mo- 
ment, however, the charm is broken, and Reason has 
her full empire over me. Let me exhort you there- 
fore. . . . But why exhort you to what is already done ? 
for if this letter has made its way to your ear, if your 
eye is now perusing its contents, the spell is dissolved, 
and you are no longer sunk in the embraces of Sleep. 



A HYMN. 



Lift up thyself, O mourning soul ! lift up thyself, 
raise thine eyes that are wet with tears ! 

Why are thine eyes wet with tears? why are they 
bent continually upon the earth? and why dost thou 
go mourning as one forsaken of thy God? 

O thou that toilest ever and restest not ; thou that 
wishest ever and art not satisfied ; thou that carest 
ever and art not 'stablished ; 



HYMN. 113 

Why dost thou toil and wish? why is thine heart 
withered with care, and thine eyes sunk with watching ? 

Rest quietly on thy couch, steep thine eyelids in 
sleep, wrap thyself in sleep as in a garment; for he 
careth for thee : 

He is with thee, he is about thee, he compasseth 
thee, he compasseth thee on every side. 

The voice of thy Shepherd among the rocks ! he 
calleth thee, he beareth thee tenderly in his arms ; he 
suffereth thee not to stray. 

Thy soul is precious in his sight, O child of many 
hopes ! 

For he careth for thee in the things which perish, 
and he hath provided yet better things than those. 

Raise thyself, beloved soul ! turn thine eyes from 
care, and sin, and pain ; turn them to the brightness of 
the heavens, and contemplate thine, inheritance ; for 
thy birthright is in the skies, and thine inheritance 
amongst the stars of light. 

The herds of the pasture sicken and die, they lie 
down among the clods of the valley, the foot passeth 
over them ; they are no more. But it is not so with 
thee. 

For the Almighty is the father of thy spirit, and he 
hath given thee a portion of his own immortality. 

Look around thee and behold the earth, for it is the 
gift of thy Father to thee and to thy sons, that they 
should possess it. 

Out of the ground cometh forth food ; the hills are 
covered with fresh shade ; and the animals, thy sub- 
jects, sport among the trees. 

Delight thyself in them, for they are good ; and all 
that thou seest is thine. 

But nothing that thou seest is like unto thyself; thou 
art not of them, nor shalt thou return to them. 

Thou hast a mighty void which they cannot fill ; 
thou hast an immortal hunger which they cannot sat- 
8 



H4 ON FRIENDSHIP. 

isfy : they cannot nourish, they cannot support, they 
are not worthy that they should occupy thee. 

As the fire which while it resteth on the earth yet 
sendeth forth sparks continually towards heaven ; so do 
thou from amidst the world send up fervent thoughts 
to God. 

As the lark, though her nest is on the low ground, as 
soon as she becometh fledged, poiseth her wings, and 
finding them strong to bear her through the light air, 
springeth up aloft, singing as she soars ; 

So let thy desires mount swiftly upwards, and thou 
shalt see the world beneath thy feet. 

And be not overwhelmed with many thoughts. 
Heaven is thine, and God is thine : thou shalt be 
blessed with everlasting salvation and peace upon thy 
head forever more. 



ON FRIENDSHIP. 

Friendship is that warm, tender, lively attachment, 
which takes place between persons in whom a similarity 
of tastes and manners, joined to frequent intercourse, 
has produced an habitual fondness for each other. It is 
not among our duties, for it does not flow from any of 
the necessary relations of society ; but it has its duties 
when voluntarily entered into. In its highest perfec- 
tion it can only, I believe, subsist between two ; for 
that unlimited confidence and perfect conformity of 
inclinations which it requires, cannot well be found in a 
larger number : besides, one such friendship fills the 
heart, and leaves no want or desire after another. 

Friendship, where it is quite sincere and affectionate, 
free from affectation or interested views, is one of the 
greatest blessings of life. It doubles our joys, and it 



ON FRIENDSHIP. 115 

lessens our sorrows, when we are able to pour both 
into the bosom of one who takes the tenderest part in 
all our interests, who is to us as another self. We love 
to communicate all our feelings ; and it is in the high- 
est degree grateful where we can do it to one who will 
enter into them all ; who takes an interest in everything 
that befalls us j before whom we can freely indulge 
even our little weaknesses and foibles, and show our 
minds as it were undressed ; who will take part in all our 
schemes, advise us in any emergency ; who rejoices in 
our company, and who, we are sure, . thinks of us in 
our absence. 

With regard to the choice of friends, there is little to 
say : for a friend was never chosen. A secret sympa- 
thy, the attraction of a thousand nameless qualities ; 
a charm in the expression of the countenance, even in 
the voice, or the manner, a similarity of circumstances, 
— these are the things that begin attachment, which is 
fostered by being in a situation which gives occasion 
for frequent intercourse ; and this depends upon 
chance. Reason and prudence have, however, much 
to do in restraining our choice of improper or danger- 
ous friends. They are improper, if our line of life and 
pursuits are so totally different as to make it improba- 
ble we shall long keep up an intimacy, at least without 
sacrificing to it connections of duty ; they are danger- 
ous, if they are in any respect vicious. 

It has been made a question whether friendship can 
subsist among the vicious. If by vicious be meant 
those who are void of the social, generous, and affec- 
tionate feelings, it is most certain it cannot ; because 
these make the very essence of it. But it is very pos- 
sible for persons to possess fine feelings, without that 
steady principle which alone constitutes virtue ; and it 
does not appear why such may not feel a real friend- 
ship. It will not indeed be so likely to be lasting, and 
is often succeeded by bitter, enmities. 



n6 ON FRIENDSHIP. 

The duties of friendship are, first, sincere and disin- 
terested affection. This seems self-evident : and yet 
there are many who pretend to love their friends, when 
at the same time they only take delight in them, as we 
delight in a fine voice or a good picture. If you love 
your friend, you will love him when his powers of 
pleasing and entertaining you have given way to mal- 
ady or depression of spirits ; you will study his interest 
and satisfaction, you will be ready to resign his com- 
pany, to promote his advantageous settlement at a dis- 
tant residence, to favor his connection with other 
friends ; — these are the tests of true affection : without 
such a disposition, you may enjoy your friend, but you 
do not love him. 

Next, friendship requires pure sincerity and the 
most unreserved confidence. Sincerity every man has 
a right to expect from us, but every man has not a 
right to our confidence : this is the sacred and peculiar 
privilege of friendship ; and so essential is it to the 
very idea of this connection, that even to serve a 
friend without giving him our confidence, is but going 
half way ; — it may command gratitude, but will not 
produce love. Above all things, the general tenor of 
our thoughts and feelings must be shown to our friends 
exactly as they are ; without any of those glosses, col- 
orings, and disguises which we do, and partly must, put 
on in our commerce with the world. 

Another duty resulting from this confidence is invio- 
lable secrecy in what has been entrusted to us. To 
every one indeed we owe secrecy in what we are for- 
mally entrusted with ; but with regard to a friend, this 
extends to the concealing everything which in the ful- 
ness of his heart and in the freedom of unguarded con- 
versation he has let drop, if you have the least idea it 
may in any manner injure or offend him. In short, 
you are to consider yourself as always, to him, under 
an implied promise of secrecy ; and should even the 



ON FRIENDSHIP. 117 

friendship dissolve, it would be in the highest degree 
ungenerous to consider this obligation as dissolved 
with it. 

In the next place, a friend has a right to our best 
advice on every emergency ; and this even though we 
run the risk of offending him by our frankness. Friends 
should consider themselves as the sacred guardians of 
each other's virtue ; and the noblest testimony they 
can give of their affection is the correction of the faults 
of those they love. But this generous solicitude must 
be distinguished from a teasing, captious, or too offi- 
cious notice of all the little defects and frailties which 
their close intercourse with each other brings contin- 
ually into view : these must be overlooked or borne 
with ; for as we are not perfect ourselves, we have no 
right to expect our friends should be so. 

Friends are most easily acquired in youth, but they 
are likewise most easily lost : the petulance and impet- 
uosity of that age, the eager competitions and rivals hips 
of an active life, and more especially the various 
changes in rank and fortune, connections, party, opin- 
ions, or local situation, burst asunder or silently untwist 
the far greater part of those friendships which, in the 
warmth of youthful attachment, we had fondly prom- 
ised ourselves should be indissoluble. 

Happy is he to whom, in the maturer season of life, 
there remains one tried and constant friend : their 
affection, mellowed by the hand of time, endeared by 
the recollection of enjoyments, toils, and even suffer- 
ings shared together, becomes the balm, the consola- 
tion, and the treasure of life. Such a friendship is 
inestimable, and should be preserved with the utmost 
care ; for it is utterly impossible for any art ever to 
transfer to another the effect of all those accumulated 
associations which endear to us the friend of our early 
years. 

These considerations should likewise induce us to 



n8 ON FRIENDSHIP. 

show a tender indulgence to our friends, even for those 
faults which most sensibly wound the feeling heart, — 
a growing coldness and indifference. These may be 
brought on by many circumstances, which do not im- 
ply a bad heart ; and provided we do not by bitter 
complaints and an open rupture preclude the possibility 
of a return, in a more favorable conjuncture the friend- 
ships of our youth may knit again, and be cultivated 
with more genuine tenderness than ever. 

I must here take occasion to observe, that there is 
nothing young people ought to guard against with 
more care than a parade of feeling, and a profusion of 
exaggerated protestations. These may sometimes pro- 
ceed from the amiable warmth of a youthful heart ; but 
they much oftener flow from the affectation of senti- 
ment, which is both contemptible and morally wrong. 

All that has been said of the duties or of the pleas- 
ures of friendship in its most exalted sense, is applica- 
ble in a proportionate degree to every connection in 
which there exists any portion of this generous affec- 
tion : so far as it does exist in the various relations of 
life, so far it renders them interesting and valuable ; 
and were the capacity for it taken away from the hu- 
man heart, it would find a dreary void, and starve 
amidst all the means of enjoyment the world could 
pour out before it. 



CONFIDENCE AND MODESTY. 

A FABLE. 

When the gods, knowing it to be for the benefit of 
mortals that the few should lead and that the many 
should follow, sent down into this lower world Igno- 
rance and Wisdom, they decreed to each of them an 
attendant and guide, to conduct their steps and facili- 
tate their introduction. To Wisdom they gave Confi- 
dence, and Ignorance they placed under the guidance 
of Modesty. Thus paired, the parties travelled about 
the world for some time with mutual satisfaction. 

Wisdom, whose eye was clear and piercing, and 
commanded a long reach of country, followed her 
conductor with pleasure and alacrity. She saw the 
windings of the road at a great distance ; her foot was 
firm, her ardor was unbroken, and she ascended the 
hill or traversed the plain with speed and safety. 

Ignorance, on the other hand, was short-sighted and 
timid. When she came to a spot where the road 
branched out in different directions, or was obliged to 
pick her way through the obscurity of the tangled 
thicket, she was frequently at a loss, and was accus- 
tomed to stop till some one appeared, to give her the 
necessary information, which the interesting counte- 
nance of her companion seldom failed to procure her. 

Wisdom in the mean time, led by a natural instinct, 
advanced toward the temple of Science and Eternal 
Truth. For some time the way lay plain before her, 
and she followed her guide with unhesitating steps : 
but she had not proceeded far before the paths grew 
intricate and entangled ; the meeting branches of the 



120 CONFIDENCE AND MODESTY. 

trees spread darkness over her head, and steep moun- 
tains barred her way, whose summits, lost in clouds, 
ascended beyond the reach of mortal vision. At 
every new turn of the road her guide urged her to 
proceed ; but after advancing a little way, she was 
often obliged to measure back her steps, and often 
found herself involved in the mazes of a labyrinth 
which, after exercising her patience and her strength, 
ended but where it began. 

In the mean time Ignorance, who was naturally 
impatient, could but ill bear the continual doubts and 
hesitation of her companion. She hated deliberation, 
and could not submit to delay. At length it so hap- 
pened that she found herself on a spot where three 
ways met, and no indication was to be found which 
might direct her to the right road. Modesty advised 
her to wait ; and she had waited till her patience was 
exhausted. At that moment Confidence, who was in 
disgrace with Wisdom for some false steps he had led 
her into, and who had just been discarded from her 
presence, came up, and offered himself to be her 
guide. He was accepted. Under his auspices Igno- 
rance, naturally swift of foot, and who could at any 
time have outrun Wisdom, boldly pressed forward, 
pleased and satisfied with her new companion. He 
knocked at every door, visited castle and convent, and 
introduced his charge to many a society whence Wis- 
dom found herself excluded. 

Modesty, in the mean time, finding she could be of 
no further use to her charge, offered her services to 
Wisdom. They were mutually pleased with each 
other, and soon agreed never to separate. And ever 
since that time Ignorance has been led by Confi- 
dence, and Modesty has been found in the society of 
Wisdom. 



ON EXPENSE. 

A DIALOGUE. 

You seem to be in a reverie, Harriet ; or are you 
tired with your long bustling walk through the streets 
of London ? 

Not at all, papa; but I was wondering at some- 
thing. 

A grown person even cannot even walk through such 
a metropolis without meeting with many things to won- 
der at. But let us hear the particular subject of your 
admiration ; was it the height and circumference of 
St. Paul's, or the automatons, or the magical effect 
of the Panorama that has most struck you ? 

No, papa ; but I was wondering how you who have 
always so much money in your pockets can go through 
the streets of London, all full of fine shops, and not 
buy things : I am sure if I had money I could not 
help spending it all. 

As you never have a great deal of money, and it is 
given you only to please your fancy with, there is no 
harm in your spending it in any thing you have a mind 
to ; but it is very well for you and me too that the 
money does not burn in my pocket as it does in yours. 

No, to be sure you would not spend all your money 
in those shops, because you must buy bread and meat, 
but you might spend a good deal. But you walk past 
just as if you did not see them : you never stop to 
give one look. Now tell me really, papa, can you 
help wishing for all those pretty things that stand in 
the shop windows? 



122 ON EXPENSE. 

For all ! Would you have me wish for all of them ? 
But I will answer you seriously. I do walk by these 
tempting shops without wishing for- any thing, and in- 
deed in general without seeing them. 

Well, that is because you are a man, and you do 
not care for what I admire so very much. 

No, there you are mistaken ; for though I may not 
admire them so very much as you say you do, there 
are a vast number of things sold in London which it 
would give me great pleasure to have in my possession. 
I should greatly like one of Dollond's best reflecting 
telescopes. I could lay out a great deal of money, if I 
had it to spare, in books of botany and natural his- 
tory. Nay, I assure you I should by no means be 
indifferent to the fine fruit exposed at the fruit-shops ; 
the plums with the blue upon them as if they were 
just taken from the tree, the luscious hot-house grapes, 
and the melons and pine-apples. Believe me, I could 
eat these things with as good a relish as you could. 

Then how can you help buying them, when you 
have money ; and especially, papa, how can you help 
thinking about them and wishing for them ? 

London is the best place in the world to cure a 
person of extravagance, and even of extravagant 
wishes. I see so many costly things here which I 
know I could not buy, even if I were to lay out all 
the money I have in the world, that I never think of 
buying any thing which I do not really want. Our 
furniture, you know, is old and plain. Perhaps if 
there were only a little better furniture to be had, I 
might be tempted to change it ; but when I see houses 
where a whole fortune is laid out in decorating a set 
of apartments, I am content with chairs whose only 
use is to sit down upon, and tables that were in fashion 
half a century ago. In short, I have formed the habit 
of self-government, one of the most useful powers a 
man can be possessed of. Self-government belongs 



ON EXPENSE. 123 

only to civilized man, — a savage has no idea of it. A 
North-American Indian is temperate when he has no 
liquor ; but as soon as liquor is within his reach, he 
invariably drinks till he is first furious and then insen- 
sible. He possesses no power over himself, and he 
literally can no more help it than iron can help being 
drawn by the loadstone. 

But he seldom gets liquor, so he has not a habit of 
drinking. 

You are right ; he has not the habit of drinking, but 
he wants the habit of self-control : this can only be 
gained by being often in the midst of temptations, and 
resisting them. This is the wholesome discipline of 
the mind. The first time a man denies himself any 
thing he likes and which it is in his power to procure, 
there is a great struggle within him, and uneasy wishes 
will disturb for some time the tranquillity of his mind. 
He has gained the victory, but the enemy dies hard. 
The next time, he does not wish so much, but he still 
thinks about it. After a while he does not think of it ; 
he does not even see it. A person of moderate for- 
tune, like myself, who lives in a gay and splendid me- 
tropolis, is accustomed to see every day a hundred 
things which it would be madness to think of 
buying. 

Yes ; but if you were very rich, papa, — if you were 
a lord ? 

No man is so rich as to buy every thing his unre- 
strained fancy might prompt him to desire. Hounds 
and horses, pictures and statues and buildings, will ex- 
haust any fortune. There is hardly any one taste so 
simple or innocent, but what a man might spend his 
whole estate in it, if he were resolved to gratify it to 
the utmost. A nobleman may just as easily ruin 
himself by extravagance as a private man, and indeed 
many do so. 

But if you were a king ? 



124 ON EXPENSE. 

If I were a king, the mischief would be much 
greater ; for I should ruin not only myself, but my 
subjects. 

A king could not hurt his subjects, however, with 
buying toys or things to eat. 

Indeed but he might. What is a diamond but a 
mere toy? but a large diamond is an object of prince- 
ly expense. That called the Pitt diamond was valued 
at £ 1,000,000. It was offered to George the Second, 
but he wisely thought it too dear. The dress of the 
late queen of France was thought by the prudent 
Necker a serious object of expense in the revenues 
of that large kingdom ; and her extravagance and that 
of the king's brothers had a great share in bringing on 
the calamities of the kingdom. As to eating, you 
could gratify yourself with laying out a shilling or two 
at the pastry-cook's : but Prince Potemkin, who had 
the revenues of the mighty empire of Russia at com- 
mand, could not please his appetite without a dish of 
sterlet soup, which cost every time it was made above 
thirty pounds ; and he would send one of his aides- de- 
camp an errand from Yassy to Petersburg, a distance 
of nearly 700 miles, to fetch him a tureen of it. He 
once bought all the cherries of a tree in a green-house 
at about half-a-crown apiece. The Roman empire 
was far richer than the Russian, and in the time of the 
Emperors was all under the power of one man. Yet 
when they had such gluttons as Vitellius and Helioga- 
balus, the revenue of whole provinces was hardly suf- 
ficient to give them a dinner: they had tongues of 
nightingales, and such kind of dishes, the value of 
which was merely in the expense. 

I think the throat of the poor little nightingales 
might have given them much more pleasure than the 
tongue. 

True : but the proverb says, The belly has no ears. 
In modern Rome, Pope Adrian, a frugal Dutchman, 



ON EXPENSE. 125 

complained of the expense his predecessor Leo X. 
was at in peacock sausages. The expenses of Louis 
XIV. were of a more elegant kind; — he was fond' 
of fine tapestry, mirrors, gardens, statues, magnificent 
palaces. These tastes were becoming in a great king, 
and would have been serviceable to his kingdom if kept 
within proper limits : but he could not deny himself 
any thing, however extravagant, that it came into his 
mind to wish for ; and indeed would have imagined it 
beneath him to think at all about the expense : and 
therefore while he was throwing up water fifty feet high 
at his palaces of Versailles and Marli, and spouting it 
out of the mouths of dolphins and tritons, thousands of 
his people in the distant provinces were wanting bread. 

I am sure I would not have done so to please my 
fancy. 

Nor he neither perhaps, if he had seen them ; but 
these poor men and their families were a great way 
off, and all the people about him looked pleased and 
happy, and said he was the most generous prince the 
world had ever seen. 

Well, but if I had Aladdin's lamp I might have every 
thing I wished for. 

I am glad at least I have driven you to fairyland. 
You might no doubt with the lamp of Aladdin, or 
Fortunatus's purse, have every thing you wished for ; 
but do you know what the consequences would be ? 

Very pleasant, I should think. 

On the contrary, you would become whimsical and 
capricious, and would soon grow tired of every thing. 
We do not receive pleasure long from any thing that 
is not bought with our own labor : this is one of those 
permanent laws of nature which man cannot change ; 
and therefore pleasure and exertion will never be separ- 
ated even in imagination in a well-regulated mind. I 
could tell you of a couple who received more true en- 
joyment of their fortune than Aladdin himself. 



126 ON EXPENSE. 

Pray do. 

The couple I am thinking of lived about a century 
ago in one of our rich trading towns, which was then 
just beginning to rise by manufacturing tapes and inkle. 
They had married because they loved one another ; 
they had very little to begin with, but they were not 
afraid, because they were industrious. When the hus- 
band had come to be the richest merchant in the place, 
he took great pleasure in talking over his small begin- 
nings ; but he used always to add, that poor as he was 
when he married, he would not have taken a thousand 
pounds for the table his dame and he ate their dinner 
from. 

What ! had he so costly a table before he was grown 
rich? 

On the contrary, he had no table at all ; and his 
wife and he used to sit close together, and place their 
dish of pottage upon their knees ; — their knees were 
the table. They soon got forward in the world, as in- 
dustrious people generally do, and were enabled to 
purchase one thing after another : first perhaps a deal 
table ; after a while a mahogany one ; then a sump- 
tuous sideboard. At first they sat on wooden benches ; 
then they had two or three rush-bottom chairs ; and 
when they were rich enough to have an arm-chair for 
the husband, and another for a friend, to smoke their 
pipes in, how magnificent they would think themselves ! 
At first they would treat a neighbor with a slice of bread 
and cheese and a draught of beer ; by degrees, with a 
good joint and a pudding ; and at length, with all the 
delicacies of a fashionable entertainment : and all along 
they would be able to say, " The blessing of God upon 
our own industry has procured us these things." By 
this means they would relish every gradation and in- 
crease of their enjoyments : whereas the man born to 
a fortune swallows his pleasures whole, he does not taste 
them. Another inconvenience that attends the man 



THE WASP AND BEE. 127 

who is born rich, is, that he has not early learned to 
deny himself. If I were a nobleman, though I could 
not buy every thing I might fancy for myself, yet play- 
things for you would not easily ruin me, and you would 
probably have a great deal of pocket-money ; and you 
would grow up with a confirmed habit of expense, and 
no ingenuity; for you would never try to make any 
thing, or find out some substitute if you could not get 
just the thing you wanted. That is a very fine cabinet 
of shells which the young heiress showed you the other 
day : it is perfectly arranged and mounted with the 
utmost elegance, and yet I am sure she has not half 
the pleasure in it, which you have had with those little 
drawers of shells of your own collecting, aided by the 
occasional contributions of friends, which you have 
arranged for yourself and display with such triumph. 
And now, to show you that I do sometimes think of the 
pleasures of my dear girl, here is a plaything for you 
which I bought while you were chatting at the door of 
a shop with one of your young friends. 

A magic-lantern ! — how delightful ! Oh, thank you, 
papa ! Edward, come and look at my charming magic- 
lantern. 



THE WASP AND BEE. 

A FABLE. 

A Wasp met a Bee, and said to him, Pray, can you 
tell me what is the reason that men are so ill-natured to 
me, while they are so fond of you ? We are both very 
much alike, only that the broad golden rings about my 
body make me much handsomer than you are : we are 
both winged insects, we both love honey, and we both 
sting people when we are angry ; yet men always hate me 
and try to kill me, though I am much more familiar with 



128 THE YOUNG MOUSE. 

them than you are, and pay them visits in their houses, 
and at their tea-table, and at all their meals ; while you 
are very shy, and hardly ever come near them : yet 
they build you curious houses, thatched with straw, 
and take care of and feed you in the winter very 
often : — I wonder what is the reason. 

The Bee said, Because you never do them any good, 
but, on the contrary, are very troublesome and mis- 
chievous ; therefore they do not like to see you ; but 
they know that I am busy all day long in making them 
honey. You had better pay them fewer visits, and try 
to be useful. 



THE YOUNG MOUSE. 

A FABLE. 

A Young Mouse lived in a cupboard where sweet- 
meats were kept : she dined every day upon biscuit, 
marmalade, or fine sugar. Never had any little Mouse 
lived so well. She had often ventured to peep at the 
family while they sat at supper ; nay, she had some- 
times stole down on the carpet, and picked up the 
crumbs, and nobody had ever hurt her. She would have 
been quite happy, but that she was sometimes fright- 
ened by the cat, and then she ran trembling to her hole 
behind the wainscot. One day she came running to 
her mother in great joy ! Mother ! said she, the good 
people of this family have built me a house to live in ; 
it is in the cupboard : I am sure it is for me, for it is 
just big enough : the bottom is of wood, and it is cov- 
ered all over with wires ; and I dare say they have 
made it on purpose to screen me from that terrible cat, 
which ran after me so often : there is an entrance just 



ALFRED. 1 29 

big enough for me, but puss cannot follow : and they 
have been so good as to put in some toasted cheese, 
which smells so deliciously, that I should have run in 
directly and taken possession of my new house, but I 
thought I would tell you first, that we might go in to- 
gether and both lodge there to-night, for it will hold us 
both. 

My dear child, said the old Mouse, it is most happy 
you did not go in, for this house is called a trap, and 
you would never have come out again, except to have 
been devoured, or put to death in some way or other. 
Though man has not so fierce a look as a cat, he is as 
much our enemy, and has still more cunning. 



ALFRED. 

A DRAMA. 
Persons of the Drama. 

Alfred, King of England. 

Gubba, a Farmer. 

Gandelin, his Wife. 

Ella, an Officer of Alfred. 

Scene, the Isle of Athelney. 

Alf. — How retired and quiet is every thing in this 
little spot ! The river winds its silent waters round 
this retreat ; and the tangled bushes of the thicket 
fence it in from the attack of an enemy. The bloody 
Danes have not yet pierced into this wild solitude. I 
believe I am safe from their pursuit. But I hope I 
shall find some inhabitants here, otherwise I shall die 
of hunger. Ha ! here is a narrow path through the 
wood ; and I think I see the smoke of a cottage rising 
between the trees. I will bend my steps thither. 

9 



130 ALFRED. 

Scene : Before the Cottage. 
Gubba coming forward. Gandelin within. 

Alf — Good even to you, good man. Are you dis- 
posed to show hospitality to a poor traveller ? 

Gub. — Why truly, there are so many poor travellers 
now-a-days, that if we entertain them all, we shall have 
nothing left for ourselves. However, come along to 
my wife, and we will see what can be done for you. 

Wife, I am very weary ; I have been chopping wood 
all day. 

Gan. — You are always ready for your supper, but 
it is not ready for you, I assure you : the cakes will 
take an hour to bake, and the sun is yet high ; it has 
not yet dipped behind the old barn. But who have 
you with you, I trow ? 

Alf — Good mother, I am a stranger ; and entreat 
you to afford me food and shelter. 

Gan. — Good mother, quotha ! Good wife, if you 
please, and welcome. But I do not love strangers ; 
and the land has no reason to love them. It has never 
been a merry day for Old England since strangers 
came into it. 

Alf. — I am not a stranger in England, though I am 
a stranger here. I am a true born Englishman. 

Gub. — And do you hate those wicked Danes, that 
eat us up, and burn our houses, and drive away our 
cattle ? 

Alf. — I do hate them. 

Gan. — Heartily ? He does not speak heartily, hus- 
band. 

Alf. — Heartily I hate them ; most heartily. 

Gub. — Give me thy hand then ; thou art an honest 
fellow. 

Alf. — I was with King Alfred in the last battle he 
fought. 



ALFRED. 131 

Gan. — With King Alfred? heaven bless him. 

Gub. — What is become of our good king ? 

Alf. — Did you love him, then? 

Gub. — Yes, as much as a poor man may love a 
king ; and kneeled down and prayed for him every 
night, that he might conquer those Danish wolves ; 
but it was not to be so. 

Alf. — You could not love Alfred better than I did. 

Gub. — But what is become of him ? 

Alf. — He is thought to be dead. 

Gub. — Well, these are sad times ; heaven help us ! 
Come, you shall be welcome to share the brown loaf 
with us ; I suppose you are too sharp-set to be nice. 

Gan. — Ay, come with us ; you shall be as welcome 
as a prince ! But hark ye, husband ; though I am 
very willing to be charitable to this stranger (it would 
be a sin to be otherwise), yet there is no reason he 
should not do something to maintain himself : he looks 
strong and capable. 

Gub. — Why, that 's true. What can you do, 
friend ? 

Alf. — I am very willing to help you in any thing 
you choose to set me about. It will please me best to 
earn my bread before I eat it. 

Gub. — Let me see. Can you tie up fagots neatly ? 

Alf. — I have not been used to it. I am afraid I 
should be awkward. 

Gub. — Can you thatch? There is apiece blown 
off the cow-house. 

Alf. — Alas, I cannot thatch. 

Gan. — Ask him if he can weave rushes : we want 
some new baskets. 

Alf. — I have never learned. 

Gub. — Can you stack hay? 

Alf. — No. 

Gub. — Why, here 's a fellow ! and yet he hath as 
many pair of hands as his neighbors. Dame, can you 



132 ALFRED. 

employ him in the house ? He might lay wood on the 
fire, and rub the tables. 

Gem. — Let him watch these cakes, then : I must 
go and milk the kine. 

Gub. — And I '11 go and stack the wood, since sup- 
per is not ready. 

Gan. — But pray observe, friend ! do not let the 
cakes burn : turn them often on the hearth. 

Alf. — I shall observe your directions. 

Alfred alone. 

Alf. — For myself, I could bear it ; but England, 
my bleeding country, for thee my heart is wrung with 
bitter anguish ! From the Humber to the Thames the 
rivers are stained with blood ! My brave soldiers cut 
to pieces ! My poor people — some massacred, oth- 
ers driven from their warm homes, stripped, abused, 
insulted : — and I, whom heaven appointed their shep- 
herd, unable to rescue my defenceless flock from the 
ravenous jaws of these devourers ! Gracious heaven ! 
if I am not worthy to save this land from the Danish 
sword, raise up some other hero to fight with more 
success than I have done, and let me spend my life in 
this obscure cottage, in these servile offices : I shall be 
content, if England is happy. 

Oh, here come my blunt host and hostess. 

Enter Gubba and Gandelin.. 

Gan. — Help me down with the pail, husband. This 
new milk, with the cakes, will make an excellent sup- 
per : but, mercy on us, how they are burnt ! black as 
my shoe ; they have not once been turned : you oaf, 
you lubbard, you lazy loon — 

Alf. — Indeed, dame, I am sorry for it ; but my 
mind was full of sad thoughts. 



ALFRED. 133 

Gub. — Come, wife, you must forgive him ; perhaps 
he is in love. I remember when I was in love with 
thee — 

Gan. — You remember? 

Gub. — Yes, dame, I do remember it, though it was 
many a long year since ; my mother was making a ket- 
tle of furmenty — 

Gan. — Prithee, hold thy tongue, and let us eat 
our suppers. 

Alf. — How refreshing is this sweet new milk, and 
this wholesome bread ! 

Gub. — Eat heartily, friend. Where shall we lodge 
him, Gandelin? 

Gan. — We have but one bed, you know ; but there 
is fresh straw in the barn. 

Alf. {aside) — If I shall not lodge like a king, at 
least I shall lodge like a soldier. Alas, how many of 
my poor soldiers are stretched on the bare ground ! 

Gan. — What noise do I hear? It is the trampling 
of horses. Good husband, go and see what is the 
matter. 

Alf. — Heaven forbid my misfortunes should bring 
destruction on this simple family. I had rather have 
perished in the wood. 

Gubba returns followed by Ella with his sword 
drawn. 

Gan. — Mercy defend us, a sword ! 

Gub. — The Danes ! the Danes ! O do not kill us ! 

Ella, (kneeling) — My liege, my lord, my sove- 
reign ; have I found you ! 

Alf. {embracing him) — My brave Ella ! 

Ella. — I bring you good news, my sovereign ! Your 
troops that were shut up in Kinwith Castle made a des- 
perate sally — the Danes were slaughtered. The fierce 
Hubba lies gasping on the plain. 



134 ALFRED. 

Alf. — Is it possible ! Am I yet a king ? 

Ella. — Their famous standard, the Danish raven, is 
taken ; their troops are panic struck ; the English sol- 
diers call aloud for Alfred. Here is a letter which will 
inform you of more particulars. ( Gives a letter.) 

Gub. {aside) — What will become of us ! Ah, 
dame, that tongue of thine has undone us ! 

Gan. — Oh, my poor, dear husband ! we shall all be 
hanged, that 's certain. But who could have thought 
it was the king? 

Gub. — Why, Gandelin, do you see, we might have 
guessed he was born to be a king, or some such great 
man, because, you know, he was fit for nothing else. 

Alf. (coming forward) — God be praised for these 
tidings ! Hope is sprung up out of the depths of de- 
spair. Oh, my friend ! shall I again shine in arms — 
again fight at the head of my brave Englishmen — 
lead them on to victory ! Our friends shall now lift 
their heads again. 

Ella. — Yes, you have many friends, who have long 
been obliged, like their master, to skulk in deserts and 
caves, and wander from cottage to cottage. When they 
hear you are alive, and in arms again, they will leave 
their fastnesses, and flock to your standard. 

Alf. — I am impatient to meet them : my people 
shall be revenged. 

Gub. and Gan. {throwing themselves at the feet of 
Alfred) — Oh, my lord 

Gan. — We hope your majesty will put us to a mer- 
ciful death. Indeed, we did not know your majesty's 
grace. 

Gub. — If your majesty could but pardon my wife's 
tongue ; she means no harm, poor woman ! 

Alf. — Pardon you, good people ! I not only pardon 
you, but thank you. You have afforded me protection 
in my distress ; and if ever I am seated again on the 
throne of England, my first care shall be to reward 



CANUTE'S REPROOF. 135 

your hospitality. I am now going to protect you. 
Come, my faithful Ella, to arms ! to arms ! My bosom 
burns to face once more the haughty Dane ; and here 
I vow to heaven, that I will never sheathe the sword 
against these robbers, till either I lose my life in this 
just cause, or 

Till dove-like Peace return to England's shore, 
And war and slaughter vex the land no more. 



CANUTE'S REPROOF TO HIS 
COURTIERS. 

Persons. 

Canute King of England. 

Oswald, Offa . . . Courtiers. 

Scene, the Sea-Side, near Southampton — the tide 
coming in. 

Can. — Is it true, my friends, what you have so 
often told me, that I am the greatest of monarchs ? 

Offa. — It is true, my liege ; you are the most pow- 
erful of all kings. 

Osw. — We are all your slaves : we kiss the dust of 
your feet. 

Offa. — Not only we, but even the elements, are 
your slaves. The land obeys you from shore to shore ; 
and the sea obeys you. 

Can. — Does the sea, with its loud boisterous waves, 
obey me? Will that terrible element be still at my 
bidding? 

Offa. — Yes, the sea is yours ; it was made to bear 
your ships upon its bosom, and to pour the treasures 
of the world at your royal feet. It is boisterous to your 
enemies, but it knows you to be its sovereign. 



136 CANUTE'S REPROOF. 

Can. — Is not the tide coming up ? 

Osw. — Yes, my liege ; you may perceive the swell 
already. 

Can. — Bring me a chair then ; set it here upon the 
sands. 

Offa. — Where the tide is coming up, my gracious 
lord? 

Can. — Yes, set it just here. 

Osw. {aside) — I wonder what he is going to do. 

Offa. {aside) — Surely he is not such a fool as to 
believe us. 

Can. — O mighty Ocean ! thou art my subject ; my 
courtiers tell me so ; and it is thy bounden duty to 
obey me. Thus, then, I stretch my sceptre over thee, 
and command thee to retire. Roll back thy swelling 
waves, nor let them presume to wet the feet of me, thy 
royal master. 

Osw. {aside) — I believe the sea will pay very little 
regard to his royal commands. 

Offa. — See how fast the tide rises ! 

Osw. — The next wave will come up to the chair. It 
is a folly to stay ; we shall be covered with salt water. 

Can. — Well, does the sea obey my commands ? If 
it be my subject, it is a very rebellious subject. See 
how it swells, and dashes the angry foam and salt 
spray over my sacred person. Vile sycophants ! did 
you think I was the dupe of your base lies? that I 
believed your abject flatteries? Know, there is only 
one Being whom the sea will obey. He is Sovereign 
of heaven and earth, King of kings, and Lord of lords. 
It is only he who can say to the ocean, " Thus far shalt 
thou go, but no farther, and here shall thy proud waves 
be stayed." A king is but a man ; and a man is but a 
worm. Shall a worm assume the power of the great 
God, and think the elements will obey him? Take 
away this crown, I will never wear it more. May kings 
learn to be humble from my example, and courtiers 
learn truth from your disgrace ! 



THE MASQUE OF NATURE. 



Who is this beautiful virgin that approaches, clothed 
in a robe of light green ? She has a garland of flowers 
on her head, and flowers spring up wherever she sets 
her foot. The snow which covered the fields, and the 
ice which was in the rivers, melt away when she breathes 
upon them. The young lambs frisk about her, and the 
birds warble in their little throats to welcome her 
coming ; and when they see her, they begin to choose 
their mates, and to build their nests. Youths and 
maidens, have ye seen this beautiful virgin? If ye 
have, tell me who is she, and what is her name. 



Who is this that cometh from the south, thinly clad 
in a light transparent garment ? Her breath is hot and 
sultry ; she seeks the refreshment of the cool shade ; 
she seeks the clear streams, the crystal brooks, to 
bathe her languid limbs. The brooks and rivulets 
fly from her, and are dried up at her approach. She 
cools her parched lips with berries, and the grateful 
acid of all fruits ; the seedy melon, the sharp apple, and 
the red pulp of the juicy cherry, which are poured 
out plentifully around her. The tanned haymakers 
welcome her coming ; and the sheep-shearer, who clips 
the fleeces off his flock with his sounding shears. When 
she cometh, let me lie under the thick shade of a 
spreading beech tree ; let me walk with her in the 
early morning, when the dew is yet upon the grass ; 



138 THE MASQUE OF NATURE. 

let me wander with her in the soft twilight, when the 
shepherd shuts his fold, and the star of evening ap- 
pears. Who is she that cometh from the south? 
Youths and maidens, tell me, if you know, who is 
she, and what is her name. 



Who is he that cometh with sober pace, stealing 
upon us unawares ? His garments are red with the 
blood of the grape, and his temples are bound with 
a sheaf of ripe wheat. His hair is thin and begins to 
fall, and the auburn is mixed with mournful gray. He 
shakes the brown nuts from the tree. He winds the 
horn, and calls the hunters to their sport. The gun 
sounds. The trembling partridge and the beautiful 
pheasant nutter bleeding in the air, and fall dead at 
the sportsman's feet. Who is he that is crowned with 
the wheat- sheaft Youths and maidens, tell me, if 
ye know, who is he and what is his name. 



Who is he that cometh from the north, clothed in 
furs and warm wool? He wraps his cloak close 
about him. His head is bald : his beard is made of 
sharp icicles. He loves the blazing fire high piled 
upon the hearth, and the wine sparkling in the glass. 
He binds skates to his feet, and skims over the frozen 
lakes. His breath is piercing and cold, and no little 
flower dares to peep above the surface of the ground 
when he is by. Whatever he touches turns to ice. 

If he were to stroke you with his cold hand, you 
would be quite stiff and dead like a piece of marble. 
Youths and maidens, do you see him ? He is coming 
fast upon us, and soon he will be here. Tell me, if 
you know, who he is, and what is his name. 



THINGS BY THEIR RIGHT NAMES. 



Charles. — Papa, you grow very lazy. Last winter 
you used to tell us stories, and now you never tell us 
any; and we are all got round the fire quite ready 
to hear you. Pray, dear papa, let us have a very 
pretty one. 

Father. — With all my heart ; what shall it be ? 

C. — A bloody murder, papa ! 

F. — A bloody murder ! Well then, — Once upon a 
time, some men, dressed all alike — 

C. — With black crapes over their faces ? 

F. — No ; they had steel caps on : — having crossed 
a dark heath, wound cautiously along the skirts of a 
deep forest — 

C. — They were ill-looking fellows, I dare say. 

F. — I cannot say so ; on the contrary, they were 
tall, personable men as most one shall see : — leaving 
on their right hand an old ruined tower on the hill — 

C. — At midnight, just as the clock struck twelve ; 
was it not, papa? 

F. — No, really; it was on a fine balmy sum- 
mer's morning : — and moved forwards, one behind 
another — 

C. — As still as death, creeping along under the 
hedges. 

F. — On the contrary, they walked remarkably up- 
right ; and so far from endeavoring to be hushed and 
still, they made a loud noise as they came along, with 
several sorts of instruments. 



14° THE GOOSE AND HORSE. 

C. — But, papa, they would be found out imme- 
diately. 

F — They did not seem to wish to conceal them- 
selves : on the contrary, they gloried in what they 
were about. They moved forwards, I say, to a large 
plain, where stood a neat pretty village, which they 
set on fire — 

C. — Set a village on fire ? wicked wretches ! 

F. — And while it was burning, they murdered — 
twenty thousand men. 

C. — Oh fie, papa ! You don't intend I should be- 
lieve this ; I thought all along you were making up a 
tale, as you often do ; but you shall not catch me this 
time. What ! they lay still, I suppose, and let these 
fellows cut their throats ! 

F. — No, truly ; they resisted as long as they could. 

C. — How should these men kill twenty thousand 
people, pray? 

F — Why not? the murderers were thirty thousand. 

C. — O, now I have found you out ! You mean a 
Battle. 

F — Indeed I do. I do not know of any murders 
half so bloody. 



THE GOOSE AND HORSE. 

A FABLE. 

A Goose, who was plucking grass upon a common, 
thought herself affronted by a Horse who fed near 
her, and in hissing accents thus addressed him : " I 
am certainly a more noble and perfect animal than 
you ; for the whole range and extent of your faculties 
are confined to one element. I can walk upon the 
ground as well as you; I have besides wings, with 



ON MANUFACTURES. 141 

which I can raise myself in the air; and when I 
please, I can sport in ponds and lakes, and refresh 
myself in the cool waters; I enjoy the different pow- 
ers of a bird, a fish, and a quadruped." 

The Horse, snorting somewhat disdainfully, replied, 
" It is true you inhabit three elements, but you make 
no very distinguished figure in any one of them. You 
fly indeed; but your flight is so heavy and clumsy, 
that you have no right to put yourself on a level with 
the lark or the swallow. You can swim on the sur- 
face of the waters, but you cannot live in them as 
fishes do ; you cannot find your food in that element, 
nor glide smoothly along the bottom of the waves. 
And when you walk, or rather waddle, upon the 
ground, with your broad feet and your long neck 
stretched out, hissing at every one who passes by, you 
bring upon yourself the derision of all beholders. I 
confess that I am only formed to move upon the 
ground ; but how graceful is my make ! how well 
turned my limbs ! how highly finished my whole body ! 
how great my strength 1 how astonishing my speed ! 
I had rather be confined to one element, and be ad- 
mired in that, than be a Goose in all." 



ON MANUFACTURES. 

Father — Henry. 

Hen. — My dear father, you observed the other day 
that we had a great many manufactures in England. 
Pray, what is a manufacture ? 

Fa. — A manufacture is something made by the 
hand of man. It is derived from two Latin words, 
manus, the hand, and facer e, to make. Manufactures 



142 ON MANUFACTURES. 

are therefore opposed to productions, which latter are 
what the bounty of nature spontaneously affords us ; 
as fruits, corn, marble. 

Hen. — But there is a great deal of trouble with 
corn ; you have often made me take notice how 
much pains it costs the farmer to plough his ground, 
"and put the seed in the earth, and keep it clear from 
weeds. 

Fa. — Very true ; but the farmer does not make the 
corn ; he only prepares for it a proper soil and situa- 
tion, and removes every hindrance arising from the 
hardness of the ground, or the neighborhood of other 
plants, which might obstruct the secret and wonderful 
process of vegetation ; but with the vegetation itself he 
has nothing to do. It is not his hand that draws out 
the slender fibres of the root, pushes up the green stalk, 
and by degrees the spiky ear; swells the grain, and 
embrowns it with that rich tinge of tawny russet, which 
informs the husbandman it is time to put in his sickle : 
all this operation is performed without his care or even 
knowledge. 

Hen. — Now then I understand ; corn is a produc- 
tion, and bread a manufacture. 

Fa. — Bread is certainly, in strictness of speech, a 
manufacture ; but we do not in general apply the term 
to any thing in which the original material is so little 
changed. If we wanted to speak of bread philosophi- 
cally, we should say, it is a preparation of corn. 

Hen. — Is sugar a manufacture. 

Fa. — No, for the same reason. Besides which, I 
do not recollect the term being applied to any article 
of food, — I suppose from an idea that food is of too 
perishable a nature, and generally obtained by a pro- 
cess too simple to deserve the name. We say, there- 
fore, sugar-works, oil-mills, chocolate-works ; we do 
not say a beer-manufactory, but a brewery ; but this is 
only a nicety of language, for properly all those are 



ON MANUFACTURES. 143 

manufactories, if there is much of art and curiosity in 
the process. 

Hen. — Do we say a manufactory of pictures ? 

Fa. — No ; but for a different reason. A picture, 
especially if it belong to any of the higher kinds of 
painting, is an effort of genius. A picture cannot be 
produced by any given combinations of canvas and 
color. It is the hand, indeed, that executes, but the 
head that works. Sir Joshua Reynolds could not have 
gone, when he was engaged to paint a picture, and 
hired workmen, the one to draw the eyes, another the 
nose, a third the mouth ; the whole must be the paint- 
er's own, that particular painter's, and no other ; and 
no one who has not his ideas can do his work. His 
work is therefore nobler, of a higher species. 

Hen. — Pray give me an instance of a manufacture. 

Fa. — The making of watches is a manufacture : the 
silver, iron, gold, or whatever else is used in it, are pro- 
ductions, the material of the work ; but it is by the 
wonderful art of man that they are wrought into the 
numberless wheels and springs of which this compli- 
cated machine is composed. 

Hen. — Then is there not so much art in making a 
watch as a picture ? Does not the head work ? 

Fa. — Certainly, in the original invention of watches, 
as much or more, than in painting; but when once 
invented, the art of watchmaking is capable of being 
reduced to a mere mechanical labor, which may be 
exercised by any man of common capacity, according 
to certain precise rules, when made familiar to him by 
practice. This, painting is not. 

Hen. — But, my dear father, making of books surely 
requires a great deal of thinking and study ; and yet 
I remember the other day at dinner a gentleman said 
that Mr. Pica had manufactured a large volume in less 
than a fortnight. 

Fa. — It was meant to convey a satirical remark on 



144 ON MANUFACTURES. 

his book, because it was compiled from other authors, 
from whom he had taken a page in one place, and a 
page in another : so that it was not produced by the 
labor of his brain, but of his hands. Thus you heard 
your mother complain that the London cream was 
manufactured; which was a pointed and concise way 
of saying that the cream was not what it ought to be, 
nor what it pretended to be ; for cream, when genuine, 
is a pure production ; but when mixed up and adulter- 
ated with flour and isinglass, and I know not what, it 
becomes a manufacture. It was as much as to say, 
art has been here, where it has no business ; where it 
is not beneficial, but hurtful. A great deal of the deli- 
cacy of language depends upon an accurate knowledge 
of the specific meaning of single terms, and a nice 
attention to their relative propriety. 

Hen. — Have all nations manufactures ? 

Fa. — All that are in any degree cultivated ; but it 
very often happens that countries naturally the poorest 
have manufactures of the greatest extent and variety. 

Hen. — Why so ? 

Fa. — For the same reason, I apprehend, that indi- 
viduals, who are rich without any labor of their own, 
are seldom so industrious and active as those who 
depend upon their own exertions : thus the Spaniards, 
who possess the richest gold and silver mines in the 
world, are in want of many conveniences of life, which 
are enjoyed in London and Amsterdam. 

Hen. — I can comprehend that ; I believe if my 
uncle Ledger were to find a gold mine under his ware- 
house, he would soon shut up shop. 

Fa. — I believe so. It is not, however, easy to estab- 
lish manufactures in a very poor nation ; they require 
science and genius for their invention ; art and contri- 
vance for their execution ; order, peace, and union, 
for their flourishing ; they require a number of men to 
combine together in an undertaking, and to prosecute 



ON MANUFACTURES. 145 

it with the most patient industry ; they require, there- 
fore, laws and government for their protection. If you 
see extensive manufactures in any nation, you may be 
sure it is a civilized nation ; you may be sure property 
is accurately ascertained, and protected. They require 
great expenses for their first establishment, costly ma- 
chines for shortening manual labor, and money and 
credit for purchasing materials from distant countries. 
There is not a single manufacture of Great Britain 
which does not require, in some part or other of its 
process, productions from the different parts of the 
globe ; oils, drugs, varnish, quicksilver, and the like ; 
it requires therefore, ships and a friendly intercourse 
with foreign nations to transport commodities, and 
exchange productions. We could not be a manu- 
facturing, unless we were also a commercial nation. 
They require time to take root in any place, and their 
excellence often depends upon some nice and delicate 
circumstance ; a peculiar quality, for instance, in the 
air or water, or some other local circumstance not 
easily ascertained. Thus, I have heard, that the Irish 
women spin better than the English, because the 
moister temperature of their climate makes their skin 
more soft and their fingers more flexible : thus, again, 
we cannot dye so beautiful a scarlet as the French can, 
though with the same drugs, perhaps on account of the 
superior purity of their air. But though so much is 
necessary for the perfection of the more curious and 
complicated manufactures, all nations possess those 
which are subservient to the common conveniences of 
life ; the loom and the forge, particularly, are of the 
highest antiquity. 

Hen. — Yes, I remember Hector bids Andromache 
return to her apartment, and employ herself in weaving 
with her maids ; and I remember the shield of Achilles. 

Fa. — True; and you likewise remember, in an 
earlier period, the fine linen of Egypt ; and, to go 
10 



146 ON MANUFACTURES. 

still higher, the working in brass and iron is recorded 
of Tubal Cain before the flood. 

Hen. — Which is the most important, manufactures 
or agriculture ? 

Fa. — Agriculture is the most necessary, because it is 
first of all necessary that man should live ; but almost 
all the enjoyments and comforts of life are produced 
by manufactures. 

Hen. — Why are we obliged to take so much pains 
to make ourselves comfortable? 

Fa. — To exercise our industry. Nature provides 
the materials for man. She pours out at his feet a 
profusion of gems, metals, dyes, plants, ores, barks, 
stones, gums, wax, marbles, woods, roots, skins, earths, 
and minerals of all kinds ! She has likewise given him 
tools. 

Hen. — I did not know that Nature gave us tools. 

Fa. — No ! what are those two instruments you car- 
ry always about with you, so strong and yet so flexible, 
so nicely jointed, and branched out into five long, taper, 
unequal divisions, any of which may be contracted or 
stretched out at pleasure : the extremities of which 
have a feeling so wonderfully delicate, and which are 
strengthened and defended by horn? 

He?i. — The hands. 

Fa. — Yes. Man is as much superior to the brutes 
in his outward form, by means of the hand, as he is in 
his mind by the gift of reason. The trunk of the ele- 
phant comes perhaps the nearest to it in^ts exquisite 
feeling and flexibility (it is, indeed, called his hand in 
Latin), and accordingly that animal has always been 
reckoned the wisest of brutes. When Nature gave man 
the hand, she said to him, " Exercise your ingenuity, 
and work." As soon as ever man rises above the state 
of a savage, he begins to contrive and to make things, 
in order to improve his forlorn condition ; thus you 
may remember Thomson represents Industry coming 



ON MANUFACTURES. 147 

to the poor shivering wretch, and teaching him the arts 
of life. 

" Taught him to chip the wood, and hew the stone, 
Till by degrees the finish'd fabric rose : 
Tore from his limbs the blood-polluted fur, 
And wrapt them in the woolly vestment warm, 
Or bright in glossy silk and flowing lawn." 

Hen. — It must require a great deal of knowledge, 
I suppose, for so many curious works; what kind of 
knowledge is most necessary ! 

Fa. — There is not any which may not be occasion- 
ally employed ; but the two sciences which most assist 
the manufacturer are mechanics and chemistry. The 
one for building mills, working of mines, and in gen- 
eral for constructing wheels, wedges, pulleys, &c. either 
to shorten the labor of man, by performing it in less 
time, or to perform what the strength of man alone 
could not accomplish : — the other in fusing and work- 
ing ores, in dyeing and bleaching, and extracting the 
virtues of various substances for particular uses : mak- 
ing of soap, for instance, is a chemical operation ; and 
by chemistry an ingenious gentleman has lately found 
out a way of bleaching a piece of cloth in eight and 
forty hours, which by the common process would have 
taken up a great many weeks. You have heard of Sir 
Richard Arkwright who died lately — 

Hen. — Yes, I have heard he was at first only a bar- 
ber, and shaved people for a penny apiece. 

Fa. — He did so ; but having a strong turn for 
mechanics, he invented, or at least perfected, a ma- 
chine, by which one pair of hands may do the work of 
twenty or thirty ; and, as in this country every one is 
free to rise by merit, he acquired the largest fortune in 
the county, had a great many hundreds of workmen 
under his orders, and had leave given him by the king 
to put Sir before his name. 

Hen. — Did that do him any good ? 



148 ON MANUFACTURES. 

Fa. — It pleased him, I suppose, or he would not 
have accepted of it ; and you will allow, I imagine, 
that if titles are used, it does honor to those who 
bestow them, that they are given to such as have made 
themselves noticed for something useful. — Arkwright 
used to say, that if he had time to perfect his inven- 
tions, he would put a fleece of wool into a box, and it 
should come out broadcloth. 

Hen. — What did he mean by that ; was there any 
fairy in the box to turn it into broadcloth with her 
wand ? 

Fa. — He was assisted by the only fairies that ever 
had the power of transformation, — Art and Industry : 
he meant that he would contrive so many machines, 
wheel within wheel, that the combing, carding, and 
other various operations, should be performed by mech- 
anism, almost without the hand of man. 

Hen. — I think, if I had not been told, I should 
never have been able to guess that my coat came off 
the back of a sheep. 

Fa. — You hardly would ; but there are manufac- 
tures in which the material is much more changed than 
in woollen cloth. What can be meaner in appearance 
than sand and ashes? Would you imagine that any 
thing beautiful could be made out of such a mixture ? 
Yet the furnace transforms this into that transparent 
crystal we call glass, than which nothing is more spark- 
ling, more brilliant, more full of lustre. It throws 
about the rays of light as if it had life and motion. 

Hen. — There is a glass-shop in London, which 
always puts me in mind of Aladdin's palace. 

Fa. — It is certain that if a person ignorant of the 
manufacture were to see one of our capital shops, he 
would think all the treasures of Golconda were centred 
there, and that every drop of cut glass was worth a 
prince's ransom. Again, who would suppose, on see- 
ing the green stalks of a plant, that it could be formed 



ON MANUFACTURES. 149 

into a texture so smooth, so snowy-white, so firm, and 
yet so flexible, as to wrap round the limbs and adapt 
itself to every movement of the body? Who would 
guess this fibrous stalk could be made to float in such 
light undulating folds as in our lawns and cambrics? 
not less fine, we presume, than that transparent drapery 
which the Romans called ventus- textilis, woven wind. 

Hen. — I wonder how anybody can spin such fine 
thread. 

Fa. — Their fingers must have the touch of a spicier, 
that, as Pope says, 

Feels at each thread, and lives along the line. 

And indeed you recollect that Arachne was a spinster. 
Lace is a still finer production from flax, and is one of 
those in which the original material is most improved. 
How many times the price of a pound of flax do you 
think that flax will be worth when made into lace ? 

Hen. — A great many times, I suppose. 

Fa. — Flax at the best hand is bought at fourteen 
pence a pound. They make lace at Valenciennes, in 
French Flanders, of ten guineas a yard, I believe 
indeed higher, but we will say ten guineas ; this yard 
of lace will weigh probably not more than half an 
ounce : what is the value of half an ounce of flax ? 
Reckon it. 

Hen. — It comes to one farthing and three quarters 
of a farthing. 

Fa. — Right ; now tell me how many times the orig- 
inal value the lace is worth. 

Hen. — Prodigious ! it is worth 5760 times as much 
as the flax it is made of. 

Fa. — Yet there is another material that is still more 
improvable than flax. 

Hen. — What can that be ? 

Fa. — Iron. The price of pig-iron is ten shillings a 
hundred weight ; this is not quite one farthing for two 



150 ON MANUFACTURES. 

ounces ; now you have seen some of the beautiful cut 
steel that looks like diamonds ? 

Hen. — Yes, I have seen buckles, and pins, and 
watch-chains. 

Fa. — Then you can form an idea of it; but you 
have seen only the most common sorts. There was 
a chain made at Woodstock, in Oxfordshire, and sent 
to France, which weighed only two ounces, and cost 
1 70/. Calculate how many times that has increased its 
value. 

Hen. — Amazing ! It was worth 163,600 times the 
value of the iron it was made of. 

Fa. — That is what manufacturers can do ; here 
man is a kind of creator, and, like the great Creator, 
he may please himself with his work, and say it is 
good. In the last mentioned manufacture, too, that of 
steel, the English have the honor of excelling all the 
world. 

Hen. — What are the chief manufactures of Eng- 
land? 

Fa. — We have at present a greater variety than I 
can pretend to enumerate, but our staple manufacture 
is woollen cloth. England abounds in fine pastures 
and extensive downs, which feed great numbers of 
sheep ; hence our wool has always been a valuable arti- 
cle of trade ; but we did not always know how to work 
it. We used to sell it to the Flemish or Lombards, 
who wrought it into cloth; till, in the year 1326, 
Edward the Third invited some Flemish weavers over 
to teach us the art ; but there was not much made in 
England till the reign of Henry the Seventh. Man- 
chester and Birmingham are towns which have arisen 
to great consequence from small beginnings, almost 
within the memory of old men now living ; the first for 
cotton and muslin goods, the second for cutlery and 
hardware, in which we at this moment excel all Europe. 
Of late years, too, carpets, beautiful as fine tapestry, 



ON MANUFACTURES. 15 1 

have been fabricated in this country. Our clocks and 
watches are greatly esteemed. The earthen-ware 
plates and dishes, which we all use in common, and 
the elegant set for the tea-table, ornamented with 
musical instruments, which we admired in our visit yes- 
terday, belong to a very extensive manufactory, the 
seat of which is at Burslem in Staffordshire. The prin- 
cipal potteries there belong to one person, an excel- 
lent chemist, and a man of great taste ; he, in conjunc- 
tion with another man of taste who is since dead, has 
made our clay more valuable than the finest porcelain 
of China. He has moulded it into all the forms of 
grace and beauty that are to be met with in the 
precious remains of the Greek and Etruscan artists. 
In the more common articles he has pencilled it with 
the most elegant designs, shaped it into shelves and 
leaves, twisted it into wicker-work, and trailed the 
ductile foliage round the light basket. He has filled 
our cabinets and chimney-pieces with urns, lamps, and 
vases, on which are lightly traced, with the purest sim- 
plicity, the fine forms and floating draperies of Hercula- 
neum. In short, he has given to our houses a classic 
air, and has made every saloon and every dining-room 
schools of taste. I should add that there is a great 
demand abroad for this elegant manufacture. The 
Empress of Russia has had some magnificent services 
of it ; and the other day one was sent to the King of 
Spain, intended as a present from him to the Arch- 
bishop of Toledo, which cost a thousand pounds. 
Some morning you shall go through the rooms in the 
London warehouse. 

Hen. — I should like very much to see manufactures, 
now you have told me such curious things about them. 

Fa. — You will do well ! There is much more 
entertainment to a cultivated mind in seeing a pin 
made, than in many a fashionable diversion which 
young people half ruin themselves to attend. In the 



152 THE FLYING FISH. 

mean time I will give you some account of one of the 
most elegant of them, which is paper. 

Hen. — Pray do, my dear father. 

Fa. — It shall be left for another evening, however, 
for it is now late. Good night. 



THE FLYING FISH. 

The Flying Fish, says the fable, had originally no 
wings, but being of an ambitious and discontented 
temper, she repined at being always confined to the 
waters, and wished to soar in the air. " If I could 
fly like the birds," said she, " I should not only see 
more of the beauties of nature, but I should be able 
to escape from those fish which are continually pursu- 
ing me, and which render my life miserable." She 
therefore petitioned Jupiter for a pair of wings : and 
immediately she perceived her fins to expand. They 
suddenly grew to the length of her whole body, and 
became at the same time so strong as to do the office 
of a pinion. She was at first much pleased with her 
new powers, and looked with an air of disdain on all 
her former companions ; but she soon perceived herself 
exposed to new dangers. When flying in the air, 
she was incessantly pursued by the Tropic bird and 
the Albatross ; and when for safety she dropped into 
the water, she was so fatigued with her flight, that she 
was less able than ever to escape from her old ene- 
mies, the fish. Finding herself more unhappy than 
before, she now begged of Jupiter to recall his present ; 
but Jupiter said to her, " When I gave you your wings, 
I well knew they would prove a curse ; but your 
proud and restless disposition deserved this disappoint- 
ment. Now, therefore, what you begged as a favor 
keep as a punishment." 



A LESSON IN THE ART OF 
DISTINGUISHING. 



F. — Come hither, Charles ; what is that you see graz- 
ing in the meadow before you ? 

C. — It is a horse. 

F. — Whose horse is it? 

C. — I do not know ; I never saw it before. 

F. — How do you know it is a horse, if you never 
saw it before ? 

C. — Because it is like other horses. 

F. — Are all horses alike then? 

C — Yes. 

F. — If they are all alike, how do you know one 
horse from another? 

C. — They are not quite alike. 

F — But they are so much alike that you can easily 
distinguish a horse from a cow ? 

C. — Yes, indeed. 

F. — Or from a cabbage ? 

C. — A horse from a cabbage ! yes, surely I can. 

F. — Very well ; then let us see if you can tell how 
a horse differs from a cabbage. 

C. — Very easily ; sl horse is alive. 

F — True ; and how is every thing called which is 
alive ? 

C. — I believe all things that are alive are called 
animals. 

F > — Right ; but can you tell me what a horse and a 
cabbage are alike in? 

C. — Nothing, I believe. 



154 THE ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 

F. — Yes, there is one thing in which the slenderest 
moss that grows upon the wall is like the greatest man 
or the highest angel. 

C. — Because God made them ? 

F — Yes ; and how do you call every thing that is 
made? 

C. — A creature. 

F — A horse then is a creature, but a living crea- 
ture ; that is to say, an animal. 

C. — And a cabbage is a dead creature ; that is the 
difference. 

F. — Not so, neither ; nothing is dead that has never 
been alive. 

C. — What must I call it then, if it is neither dead 
nor alive ? 

F. — An inanimate creature ; there is the animate 
and inanimate creation. Plants, stones, metals, are of 
the latter class ; horses belong to the former. 

C. — But the gardener told me some of my cabbages 
were dead, and some were alive. 

F. — Very true. Plants have a vegetative life, a prin- 
ciple of growth and decay ; this is common to them 
with all organized bodies ; but they have not sensation, 
at least we do not know they have ; they have not life, 
therefore, in the sense in which animals enjoy it. 

C. — A horse is called an animal, then. 

F. — Yes ; but a salmon is an animal, and so is 
a sparrow; how will you distinguish a horse from 
these ? 

C. — A salmon lives in the water, and swims; a 
sparrow flies, and lives in the air. 

F — I think a salmon could not walk upon the 
ground, even if it could live out of the water. 

C. — No, indeed ; it has no legs. 

F. — And a bird would not gallop like a horse. 

C. — No ; it would hop away upon its two slender 
legs. 



THE ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 155 

F. — How many legs has a horse ? 

C. — Four. 

F. — ■ And an ox ? 

C. — Four likewise. 

F. — And a camel ? 

C. — Four still. 

F. — Do you know any animals which live upon the 
earth that have not four legs ? 

C. — I think not; they have all four legs; except 
worms and insects, and such things. 

F. — You remember, I suppose, what an animal is 
called that has four legs; you have it in your little 
books. 

C. — A quadruped. 

F — A horse then is a quadruped: by this we distin- 
guish him from the birds, fishes, and insects. 

C. — ■ And from men. 

F. — True ; but if you had been talking about birds, 
you would not have found it so easy to distinguish 
them. 

C. — How so ! a man is not at all like a bird. 

F — Yet an ancient philosopher could find no way 
to distinguish them, but by calling man a two-legged 
animal without feathers. 

C. — I think he was very silly ; they are not at all 
alike, though they have both two legs. 

F — Another ancient philosopher, called Diogenes, 
was of your opinion. He stripped a cock of his feath- 
ers, and turned him into the school where Plato — 
that was his name — was teaching, and said, Here is 
Plato's man for you. 

C. — I wish I had been there, I should have laughed 
very much. 

F. — Probably. Before we laugh at others, however, 
let us see what we can do ourselves. We have not yet 
found any thing which will distinguish a horse from an 
elephant, or from a Norway rat. 



156 THE ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 

C. — Oh, that is easy enough. An elephant is very 
large, and a rat is very small ; a horse is neither large 
nor small. 

F. — Before we go any further, look, what is settled 
on the skirt of your coat ? 

C. — It is a butterfly ; what a prodigious large one ! 
I never saw such a one before. 

F — Is it larger than a rat, think you ? 

C. — No, that it is not. 

F — Yet you called the butterfly large, and you 
called the rat small. 

C. — It is very large for a butterfly. 

F. — It is so. You see, therefore, that large and 
small are relative terms. 

C. — I do not well understand that phrase. 

F. — It means that they have no precise and deter- 
minate signification in themselves, but are applied dif- 
ferently, according to the other ideas which you join 
with them, and the different positions in which you 
view them. This butterfly, therefore, is large, com- 
pared with those of its own species, and small, com- 
pared with many other species of animals. Besides, 
there is no circumstance which varies more than the 
size of individuals. If you were to give an idea of a 
horse from its size, you would certainly say it was 
much bigger than a dog ; yet if you take the smallest 
Shetland horse, and the largest Irish greyhound, you 
will find them very much upon a par : size, therefore, is 
not a circumstance by which you can accurately distin- 
guish one animal from another ; nor yet his color. 

C. — No ; there are black horses, and bay, and white, 
and pied. 

F. — But you have not seen that variety of colors in 
a hare, for instance. 

C. — No, a hare is always brown. 

F — Yet if you were to depend upon that circum- 
stance, you would not convey the idea of a hare to a 



THE ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 157 

mountaineer, or an inhabitant of Siberia ; for he sees 
them white as snow. We must, therefore, find out 
some circumstances that do not change like size and 
color, and, I may add, shape ; though they are not so 
obvious, nor perhaps so striking. Look at the feet of 
quadrupeds ; are they all alike ? 

C. — No ; some have long taper claws, and some 
have thick clumsy feet without claws. 

F. — The thick feet are horny, are they not ? 

C. — Yes, I recollect they are called hoofs. 

F. — And the feet that are not covered with horn, 
and are divided into claws, are called digitated, from 
digitus, a finger ; because they are - parted like fingers. 
Here, then, we have one grand division of quadrupeds 
into hoofed and digitated. Of which division is the 
horse ? 

C. — He is hoofed. 

F. — There are a great many different kinds of 
horses ; did you ever know one that was not hoofed ? 

C. — No, never. 

F. — Do you think we run any hazard of a stranger 
telling us, Sir, horses are hoofed indeed in your coun- 
try, but in mine, which is in a different climate, and 
where we feed them differently, they have claws ? 

C. — No, I dare say not. 

F. — Then we have got something to our purpose ; 
a circumstance easily marked, which always belongs 
to the animal, under every variation of situation or 
treatment. But an ox is hoofed, and so is a sheep ; 
we must distinguish still farther. You have often 
stood by, I suppose, while the smith was shoeing a 
horse. What kind of a hoof has he ? 

C. — It is round and all in one piece. 

F. — And is that of an ox so ? 

C. — No, it is divided. 

F. — A horse, then, is not only hoofed, but whole 
hoofed. Now how many quadrupeds do you think 
there are in the world that are whole hoofed ? 



158 THE ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 

C. — Indeed I do not know. 

F. — There are, among all animals that we are ac- 
quainted with, either in this country or in any other, 
only the horse, the ass, and the zebra, which is a spe- 
cies of wild ass. Now, therefore, you see we have 
nearly accomplished our purpose ; we have only to 
distinguish him from the ass. 

C. — That is easily done, I believe ; I should be 
sorry if anybody could mistake my little horse for an 
ass. 

F. — It is not so easy, however, as you imagine ; 
the eye readily distinguishes them by the air and gen- 
eral appearance, but naturalists have been rather puz- 
zled to fix upon any specific difference, which may 
serve the purpose of a definition. Some have, there- 
fore, fixed upon the ears, others on the mane and tail. 
What kind of ears has an ass ? 

C. — O, very long clumsy ears. Asses' ears are 
always laughed at. 

F. — And the horse ? 

C. — The horse has small ears, nicely turned, and 
upright. 

F. — And the mane, is there no difference there ? 

C. — The horse has a fine, long, flowing mane ; the 
ass has hardly any. 

F. — And the tail ; is it not fuller of hair in the 
horse than in the ass ? 

C. — Yes ; the ass has only a few long hairs at the 
end of his tail ; but the horse has a long bushy tail, 
when it is not cut. 

F. — Which, by the way, it is pity it ever should. 
Now, then, observe what particulars we have got. A 
horse is an ani7na! of the quadruped kind, whole-hoofed, 
with short erect ears, a flowing mane, and a tail cov- 
ered in every part with long hairs. Now is there any 
other animal, think you, in the world, that answers 
these particulars ? 



THE ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 159 

C. — I do not know ; "this does not tell us a great 
deal about him. 

F. — And yet it tells us enough to distinguish him 
from all the different tribes of the creation which we 
are acquainted with in any part of the earth. Do you 
know now what we have been making ? 

C — What? 

F — A Definition. It is the business of a defini- 
tion to distinguish precisely the thing defined from 
every other thing, and to do it in as few terms as pos- 
sible. Its object is to separate the subject of defini- 
tion, first, from those with which it has only a general 
resemblance ; then, from those which agree with it 
in a greater variety of particulars ; and so on, till by 
constantly throwing out all which have not the qualities 
we have taken notice of, we come at length to the 
individual or the species we wish to ascertain. It is 
a kind of chase, and resembles the manner of hunting 
in some countries, where they first enclose a very 
large circle with their dogs, nets, and horses ; and 
then, by degrees, draw their toils closer and closer, 
driving their game before them till it is at length 
brought into so narrow a compass, that the sportsmen 
have nothing to do but to knock down their prey. 

C. — Just as we have been hunting this horse, till at 
last we held him fast by his ears and his tail. 

F. — I should observe to you, that in the definition 
naturalists give of a horse, it is generally mentioned 
that he has six cutting teeth in each jaw ; because 
this circumstance of the teeth has been found a very 
convenient one for characterizing large classes : but 
as it is not absolutely necessary here, I have omitted 
it ; a definition being the more perfect the fewer par- 
ticulars you make use of, provided you can say with 
certainty from those particulars, The object so char- 
acterized must be this, and no other whatever. 

C. — But, papa, if I had never seen a horse, I 



160 THE ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 

should not know what kind of animal it was by this 
definition. 

F. — Let us hear, then, how you would give me an 
idea of a horse. 

C. — I would say it was a fine large prancing crea- 
ture, with slender legs and an arched neck, and a sleek 
smooth skin, and a tail that sweeps the ground, and 
that he snorts and neighs very loud, and tosses his 
head, and runs as swift as the wind. 

F. — I think you learned some verses upon the 
horse in your last lesson : repeat them. 

C. — The wanton courser thus with reins unbound 

Breaks from his stall, and beats the trembling ground; 

Pampered and proud, he seeks the wonted tides, 

And laves, in height of blood, his shining sides ; 

His head, now freed, he tosses to the skies ; 

His mane dishevelled, o'er his shoulders flies ; 

He snuffs the females in the distant plain, 

And springs, exulting, to his fields again. pQpE , s H0MER> 

F. — You have said very well ; but this is not a Defi- 
nition, it is a Description. 

C. — What is the difference ? 

F. — A description is intended to give you a lively 
picture of an object, as if you saw it ; it ought to be 
very full. A definition gives no picture to those who 
have not seen it ; it rather tells you what its subject is 
not, than what it is, by giving you such clear specific 
marks, that it shall not be possible to confound it with 
any thing else ; and hence it is of the greatest use in 
throwing things into classes. We have a great many 
beautiful descriptions from ancient authors so loosely 
worded that we cannot certainly tell what animals are 
meant by them ; whereas if they had given us defini- 
tions, three lines would have ascertained their meaning. 

C. — I like a description best, papa. 

F. — Perhaps so ; I believe I should have done the 
same at your age. Remember, however, that nothing 



THE P HEN IX AND DOVE. 161 

is more useful than to learn to form ideas with pre- 
cision, and to express them with accuracy : I have 
not given you a definition to teach you what a horse 
is, but to teach you to think. 



THE PHENIX AND DOVE. 

A Phenix, who had long inhabited the solitary des- 
erts of Arabia, once flew so near the habitations of 
men as to meet with a tame Dove, who was sitting on 
her nest, with wings expanded, fondly brooding over 
her young ones, while she expected her mate, who was 
foraging abroad to procure them food. The Phenix, 
with a kind of insulting compassion, said to her, " Poor 
bird, how much I pity thee ! confined to a single spot, 
and sunk in domestic cares ; thou art continually 
employed either in laying eggs or in providing for thy 
brood ; and thou exhaustest thy life and strength in 
perpetuating a feeble and defenceless race. As to my- 
self, I live exempt from toil, care, and misfortune. I 
feed upon nothing less precious than rich gums and 
spices ; I fly through the trackless regions of the air, 
and when I am seen by men, am gazed at with curios- 
ity and astonishment ; I have no one to control my 
range, no one to provide for ; and when I have fulfilled 
my five centuries of life, and seen the revolutions of 
ages, I rather vanish than die, and a successor, without 
my care, springs up from my ashes. I am an image of 
the great sun whom I adore ; and glory in being, like 
him, single and alone, and having no likeness." 

The Dove replied, " O Phenix, I pity thee much 
more than thou affectest to pity me ! What pleasure 
canst thou enjoy, who livest forlorn and solitary in a 
trackless and unpeopled desert ; who hast no mate to 



1 62 THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER. 

caress thee, no young ones to excite thy tenderness 
and reward thy cares, no kindred, no society amongst 
thy fellows. Not long life only, but immortality itself 
would be a curse, if it were to be bestowed on such 
uncomfortable terms. For my part, I know that my 
life will be short, and therefore I employ it in raising a 
numerous posterity, and in opening my heart to all the 
sweets of domestic happiness. I am beloved by my 
partner ; I am dear to man ; and shall leave marks 
behind me that I have lived. As to the sun, to whom 
thou hast presumed to compare thyself, that glorious 
being is so totally different from, and so infinitely supe- 
rior to, all the creatures upon earth, that it does not 
become us to liken ourselves to him, or to determine 
upon the manner of his existence. One obvious differ- 
ence, however, thou mayest remark; that the sun, 
though alone, by his prolific heat, produces all things, 
and though he shines so high above our heads, gives 
us reason every moment to bless his beams ; whereas 
thou, swelling with thy imaginary greatness, dreamest 
away a long period of existence, equally void of com- 
fort and usefulness." 



THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER. 

Fa. — I will now, as I promised, give you an ac- 
count of the elegant and useful manufacture of Paper, 
the basis of which is itself a manufacture. This deli- 
cate and beautiful substance is made from the meanest 
and most disgusting materials, from old rags, which 
have passed from one poor person to another, and at 
length have perhaps dropped in tatters from the child of 
the beggar. These are carefully picked up from dung- 
hills, or bought from servants by Jews, who make it their 



THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER. 163 

business to go about and collect them. They sell them 
to the rag-merchant, who gives from two-pence to four- 
pence a pound, according to their quality; and he, 
when he has got a sufficient quantity, disposes of them 
to the owner of the paper-mill. He gives them first 
to women to sort and pick, agreeably to their different 
degrees of fineness : they also with a knife cut out 
carefully all the seams, which they throw into a basket 
for other purposes ; they then put them into the dust- 
ing engine, a large circular wire sieve, from whence 
they receive some degree of cleansing. The rags are 
then conveyed. to the mill. Here they were formerly 
beat to pieces with vast hammers, which rose and fell 
continually with a most tremendous noise, that was 
heard from a great distance. But now they put the 
rags into a large trough or cistern, into which a pipe of 
clear spring water is constantly flowing. In this cis- 
tern is placed a cylinder, about two feet long, set 
thick round with rows of iron spikes, standing as near 
as they can to one another without touching. At the 
bottom of the trough there are corresponding rows of 
spikes. The cylinder is made to whirl round with 
inconceivable rapidity, and with these iron teeth rends 
and tears the cloth in every possible direction ; till, by 
the assistance of the water, which continually flows 
through the cistern, it is thoroughly masticated, and 
reduced to a fine pulp ; and by the same process all its 
impurities are cleansed away, and it is restored to its 
original whiteness. This process takes about six hours. 
To improve the color they then put in a little smalt, 
which gives it a bluish cast, which all paper has more 
or less : the French paper has less of it than ours. 
This fine pulp is next put into a copper of warm water. 
It is the substance of paper, but the form must now 
be given it : for this purpose they use a mould. It is 
made of wire, strong one way, and crossed with finer. 
This mould they just dip horizontally into the copper, 



1 64 THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER. 

and take it out again. It has a little wooden frame on 
the edge, by means of which it retains as much of the 
pulp as is wanted for the thickness of the sheet, and 
the superfluity runs off through the interstices of the 
wires. Another man instantly receives it, opens the 
frame, and turns out the thin sheet, which has now 
shape, but not consistence, upon soft felt, which is 
placed on the ground to receive it. On that is placed 
another piece of felt, and then another sheet of paper, 
and so on till they have made a pile of forty or fifty. 
They are then pressed with a large screw-press, moved 
by a long lever, which forcibly squeezes the water out 
of them, and gives them immediate consistence. There 
is still, however, a great deal to be done. The felts 
are taken off, and thrown on one side, and the paper 
on the other, from whence it is dexterously taken up 
with an instrument in the form of a T, three sheets at 
a time and hung on lines to dry. There it hangs for a 
week or ten days, which likewise further whitens it; 
and any knots and roughnesses it may have are picked 
off carefully by the women, It is then sized. Size is 
a kind of glue ; and without this preparation the paper 
would not bear ink ; it would run and blot, as you see 
it does on gray paper. The sheets are just dipped into 
the size and taken out again. The exact degree of 
sizing is a matter of nicety, which can only be known 
by experience. They are then hung up again to dry, 
and when dry taken to the finishing-room, where they 
are examined anew, pressed in the dry presses, which 
gives them their last gloss and smoothness ; counted 
up into quires, made up in reams, and sent to the sta- 
tioner's, from whom we have it, after he has folded it 
again and cut the edges ; some too he makes to shine 
like satin, by glossing it with hot plates. The whole 
process of paper-making takes about three weeks. 

H. — It is a very curious process indeed. I shall 
almost scruple for the future to blacken a sheet of 



THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER. 165 

paper with a careless scrawl, now I know how much 
pains it costs to make it so white and beautiful. 

F. — It is true that there is hardly any thing we use 
with so much waste and profusion as this manufacture ; 
we should think ourselves confined in the use of it, 
if we might not tear, disperse, and destroy it in a thou- 
sand ways ; so that it is really astonishing from whence 
linen enough can be procured to answer so vast a 
demand. As to the coarse brown papers, of which 
an astonishing quantity is used by every shopkeeper 
in packages &c, these are made chiefly of oakum, 
that is, old hempen ropes. A fine paper is made in 
China of silk. 

H. — I have heard lately of woven paper; pray what 
is that? they cannot weave paper, surely ! 

F. — Your question is very natural. In order to 
answer it I must desire you to take a sheet of com- 
mon paper, and hold it up against the light. Do not 
you see marks in it ? 

H. — I see a great many white lines running along 
lengthways, like ribs, and smaller that cross them. 
I see, too, letters and the figure of a crown. 

F. — These are all the marks of the wires ; the thick- 
ness of the wire prevents so much of the pulp lying 
upon the sheet in those places, consequently wherever 
the wires are, the paper is thinner, and you see the 
light through more readily, which gives that appear- 
ance of white lines. The letters, too, are worked in 
the wire, and are the maker's name. Now to prevent 
these lines, which take off from the beauty of the pa- 
per, particularly of drawing paper, there have been 
lately used moulds of brass wire exceedingly fine, of 
equal thickness, and woven or latticed one within 
another; the marks therefore, of these are easily 
pressed out, so as to be hardly visible ; if you look 
at this sheet you will see it is quite smooth. 

If. — It is so. 



1 66 THE FOUR SISTERS. 

F. — I should mention to you, that there is a discov- 
ery very lately made, by which they can make paper, 
equal to any in whiteness, of the coarsest brown rags, 
and even of dyed cottons ; which they have till now 
been obliged to throw by for inferior purposes. This 
is by means of manganese, a sort of mineral, and oil 
of vitriol ; a mixture of which they just pass through 
the pulp, while it is in water, for otherwise it would 
burn it, and in an instant it discharges the colors of 
the dyed cloths, and bleaches the brown to a beauti- 
ful whiteness. 

H. — That is like what you told me before of bleach- 
ing cloth in a few hours. 

F. — It is indeed founded upon the same discovery. 
The paper made of these brown rags is likewise more 
valuable, from being very tough and strong, almost like 
parchment. 

H. — When was the making of paper found out ? 

F. — It is a disputed point, but probably in the four- 
teenth century. The invention has been of almost 
equal consequence to literature, as that of printing it- 
self; and shows how the arts and sciences, like children 
of the same family, mutually assist and bring forward 
each other. 



THE FOUR SISTERS. 

I am one of four sisters ; and having some reason to 
think myself not well used either by them or by the 
world, I beg leave to lay before you a sketch of our 
history and characters. You will not wonder there 
should be frequent bickerings amongst us, when I tell 
you that in our infancy we were continually fighting ; 
and so great was the noise, and din, and confusion, in 
our continual struggles to get uppermost, that it was 



THE FOUR SISTERS. 167 

impossible for anybody to live amongst us in such a 
scene of tumult and disorder. These brawls, however, 
by a powerful interposition, were put an end to ; our 
proper place was assigned to each of us, and we had 
strict orders not to encroach on the limits of each 
other's property, but to join our common offices for 
the good of the whole family. 

My first sister (I call her the first, because we have 
generally allowed her the precedence in rank) is, I 
must acknowledge, of a very active, sprightly dispo- 
sition ; quick and lively, and has more brilliancy than 
any of us ; but she is hot ; every thing serves for fuel to 
her fury, when it is once raised to a certain degree, and 
she is so mischievous whenever she gets the upper 
hand, that, notwithstanding her aspiring disposition, if 
I may freely speak my mind, she is calculated to make 
a good servant, but a very bad mistress. 

I am almost ashamed to mention, that notwithstand- 
ing her seeming delicacy, she has a most voracious 
appetite, and devours every thing that comes in her 
way; though, like other eager thin people, she does 
no credit to her keeping. Many a time has she con- 
sumed the product of my barns and store-houses, but 
it is all lost upon her. She has even been known to 
get into an oil-shop or tallow-chandler's, when every- 
body was asleep, and lick up, with the utmost greedi- 
ness, whatever she found there. Indeed, all prudent 
people are aware of her tricks, and though she is admit- 
ted into the best families, they take care to watch her 
very narrowly. I should not forget to mention, that 
my sister was once in a country where she was treated 
with uncommon respect. She was lodged in a sump- 
tuous building, and had a number of young women, of 
the best families, to attend on her, and feed her, and 
watch over her health ; in short, she was looked upon 
as something more than a common mortal. But she 
always behaved with great severity to her maids, and if 



1 68 THE FOUR SISTERS. 

any of them were negligent of their duty, or made a 
slip in their own conduct, nothing would serve her but 
burying the poor girls alive. I have myself had some 
dark hints and intimations from the most respectable 
authority, that she will some time or other make an end 
of me. You need not wonder, therefore, if I am jeal- 
ous of her motions. 

The next sister I shall mention to you, has so far 
the appearance of modesty and humility, that she gen- 
erally seeks the lowest place. She is indeed of a very 
yielding, easy temper, generally cool, and often wears a 
sweet placid smile upon her countenance ; but she is 
easily ruffled, and when worked up, as she often is, by 
another sister, whom I shall mention to you by and by, 
she becomes a perfect fury. Indeed, she is so apt to 
swell with sudden gusts of passion, that she is sus- 
pected at times to be a little lunatic. Between her and 
my first mentioned sister, there is more settled antipa- 
thy than between the Theban pair; and they never 
meet without making efforts to destroy one another. 
With me she is always ready to form the most intimate 
union, but it is not always to my advantage. There 
goes a story in our family, that when we were all young, 
she once attempted to drown me. She actually kept 
me under a considerable time, and though at length I 
got my head above water, my constitution is generally 
thought to have been essentially injured by it ever 
since. From that time she has made no such atro- 
cious attempt, but she is continually making encroach- 
ments upon my property ; and even when she appears 
most gentle, she is very insidious, and has such an 
undermining way with her, that her insinuating arts are 
as much to be dreaded as open violence. I might 
indeed remonstrate, but it is a known part of her char- 
acter, that nothing makes any lasting impression upon 
her. 

As to my third sister, I have already mentioned the 



THE FOUR SISTERS. 169 

ill offices she does me with my last mentioned one, 
who is entirely under her influence. She is, besides, of 
a very uncertain, variable temper, sometimes hot, and 
sometimes cold ; nobody knows where to have her. 
Her lightness is even proverbial, and she has nothing 
to give those who live with her more substantial than 
the smiles of courtiers. I must add, that she keeps 
in her service three or four rough, blustering bullies, 
with puffed cheeks, who, when they are let loose, think 
they have nothing to do but to drive the world before 
them. She sometimes joins with my first sister, and 
their violence occasionally throws me into such a trem- 
bling, that, though naturally of a firm constitution, I 
shake as if I was in an ague fit. 

As to myself, I am of a steady, solid temper ; not 
shining indeed, but kind and liberal, quite a Lady 
Bountiful. Every one tastes of my beneficence, and 
I am of so grateful a disposition, that I have been 
known to return an hundred-fold for any present that 
has been made me. I feed and clothe all my children, 
and afford a welcome home to the wretch who has no 
other home. I bear with unrepining patience all man- 
ner of ill usage ; I am trampled upon ; I am torn and 
wounded with the most cutting stroke ; I am pillaged 
of the treasures hidden in my most secret chambers ; 
notwithstanding which, I anf always ready to return 
good for evil, and am continually subservient to the 
pleasure or advantage of others ; yet so ungrateful is 
the world, that because I do not possess all the airiness 
and activity of my sisters, I am stigmatized as dull and 
heavy. Every sordid, miserly fellow is called by way 
of derision one of my children ; and if a person on 
entering a room does but turn his eyes upon me, he is 
thought stupid and mean, and not fit for good com- 
pany. I have the satisfaction, however, of finding that 
people always incline towards me as they grow older ; 
and that those who seemed proudly to disdain any 



170 THE PINE AND THE OLIVE. 

affinity with me, are content to sink at last into my 
bosom. You will probably wish to have some account 
of my person. I am not a regular beauty : some of 
my features are rather harsh and prominent, when 
viewed separately ; but my countenance has so much 
variety of expression, and so many different attitudes 
of elegance, that those who study my face with atten- 
tion, find out continually new charms ; and it may be 
truly said of me, what Titus says of his mistress, and 
for a much longer space, 

Pendant cinq ans entiers tous les jours je la vois, 
Et crois toujours la voir pour la premiere fois. 

For five whole years each day she meets my view, 
Yet every day I seem to see her new. 

Though I have been so long a mother, I have still a 
surprising air of youth and freshness, which is assisted 
by all the advantages of well-chosen ornament ; for I 
dress well, and according to the season. 

This is what I have chiefly to say of myself and my 
sisters. To a person of your sagacity it will be unnec- 
essary for me to sign my name. Indeed, one who 
becomes acquainted with any one of the family, cannot 
be at a loss to discover the rest, notwithstanding the 
difference in our features and characters. 



THE PINE AND THE OLIVE. 

A FABLE. 

A Stoic, swelling with the proud consciousness of 
his own worth, took a solitary walk; and straying 
amongst the groves of Academus, he sat down be- 
tween an Olive and a Pine tree. His attention was 
soon excited by a murmur which he heard among the 
leaves. The whispers increased; and listening at- 



THE PINE AND THE OLIVE. 171 

tentively, he plainly heard the Pine say to the Olive 
as follows : " Poor tree ! I pity thee : thou now spread- 
est thy green leaves and exultest in all the pride of 
youth and spring ; but how soon will thy beauty be 
tarnished ! The fruit which thou exhaustest thyself to 
bear, shall hardly be shaken from thy boughs before 
thou shalt grow dry and withered : thy green veins, 
now so full of juice, shall be frozen ; naked and bare, 
thou wilt stand exposed to all the storms of winter, 
whilst my firmer leaf shall resist the change of the sea- 
sons. Unchangeable is my motto, and through the 
various vicissitudes of the year I shall continue equally 
green and vigorous as I am at present." 

The Olive, with a graceful wave of her boughs re- 
plied : " It is true thou wilt always continue as thou art 
at present. Thy leaves will keep that sullen and gloomy 
green in which they are now arrayed, and the stiff 
regularity of thy branches will not yield to those storms 
which will bow down many of the feebler tenants of 
the grove. Yet I wish not to be like thee. I rejoice 
when nature rejoices ; and when I am desolate, nature 
mourns with me. I fully enjoy pleasure in its season, 
and I am contented to be subject to the influences of 
those seasons and that economy of nature by which I 
flourish. When the spring approaches, I feel the kind- 
ly warmth ; my branches swell with young buds, and 
my leaves unfold ; crowds of singing birds which never 
visit thy noxious shade, sport on my boughs ; my fruit 
is offered to the gods, and rejoices men ; and when the 
decay of nature approaches, I shed my leaves over the 
funeral of the falling year, and am well contented not 
to stand a single exception to the mournful desolation 
I see everywhere around me." 

The Pine was unable to frame a reply ; and the phil- 
osopher turned away his steps, rebuked and humbled. 



ON RIDDLES. 



My dear young Friends, — I presume you are now 
all come home for the holidays, and that the brothers 
and sisters and cousins, papas and mammas, uncles and 
aunts, are all met cheerfully round a Christmas fire, 
enjoying the company of their friends and relations, 
and eating plum pudding and mince pie. These are 
very good things ; but one cannot always be eating 
plum pudding and mince pie : the days are short, and 
the weather bad, so that you cannot be much abroad ; 
and I think you must want something to amuse you. 
Besides, if you have been employed as you ought to be 
at school, and if you are quick and clever, as I hope 
you are, you will want some employment for that part 
of you which thinks, as well as that part of you which 
eats ; and you will like better to solve a riddle than to 
crack a nut or walnut. Finding out riddles is the same 
kind of exercise of the mind which running and leaping 
and wrestling in sport are to the body. They are of no 
use in themselves, — they are not work, but play ; but 
they prepare the body, and make it alert and active for 
any thing it may be called to perform in labor or war. 
So does the finding out of riddles, if they are good es- 
pecially, give quickness of thought, and a facility of 
turning about a problem every way, and viewing it in 
every possible light. When Archimedes, coming out of 
the bath, cried in transport, " Eureka /" (I have found 
it !) he had been exercising his mind precisely in the 
same manner as you will do when you are searching 
about for the solution of a riddle. 



ON RIDDLES. 173 

And pray, when you are got together, do not let any 
little Miss or Master say, with an affected air, " Oh, do 
not ask me ; I am so stupid I never can guess." They 
do not mean you should think them stupid and dull ; 
they mean to imply that these things are too trifling to 
engage their attention. If they are employed better, it 
is very well ; but if not, say, " I am very sorry indeed 
you are so dull, but we that are clever and quick will 
exercise our wits upon these ; and, as our arms grow 
stronger by exercise, so will our wits." 

Riddles are of high antiquity, and were the employ- 
ment of grave men formerly. The first riddle that we 
have on record was proposed by Samson at a wedding 
feast to the young men of the Philistines who were in- 
vited upon the occasion. The feast lasted seven days * 
and if they found it out within the seven days, Samson 
was to give them thirty suits of clothes and thirty 
sheets ; and if they could not guess it, they were to 
forfeit the same to him. The riddle was, " Out of the 
eater came forth meat, and out of the strong came forth 
sweetness." He had killed a lion, and left its carcass : 
on returning soon after, he found a swarm of bees had 
made use of the skeleton as a hive, and it was full of 
honeycomb. Struck with the oddness of the circum- 
stance, he made a riddle of it. They puzzled about it 
the whole seven days, and would not have found it out 
at last if his wife had not told them. 

The Sphinx was a great riddle-maker. According to 
the fable, she was half a woman and half a lion. She 
lived near Thebes, and to everybody that came she 
proposed a riddle ; and if they did not find it out, 
she devoured them. At length CEdipus came, and she 
asked him, " What is that animal which walks on four 
legs in the morning, two at noon, and three at night ! " 
CEdipus answered, " Man : in childhood, which is the 
morning of life, he crawls on his hands and feet ; in 
middle age, which is noon, he walks erect on two ; in 



174 ON RIDDLES. 

old age he leans on a crutch, which serves for a sup- 
plementary third foot." 

The famous wise men of Greece did not disdain to 
send puzzles to each other. They are also fond of rid- 
dles in the East. There is a pretty one in some of 
their tales : " What is that tree which has twelve 
branches, and each branch thirty leaves, which are 
all black on one side and white on the other? " The 
tree is the year ; the branches the months ; the leaves, 
black on one side and white on the other, signify day 
and night. Our Anglo-Saxon ancestors also had rid- 
dles, some of which are still preserved in a very ancient 
manuscript. 

A riddle is a description of a thing without the name ; 
but as it is meant to puzzle, it appears to belong to 
something else than what it really does, and often 
seems contradictory ; but when you have guessed it, it 
appears quite clear. It is a bad riddle if you are at all 
in doubt when you have found it out whether you are 
right or no. A riddle is not verbal, as charades, conun- 
drums, and rebuses are : it may be translated into any 
language, which the others cannot. Addison would put 
them all in the class of false wit : but Swift, who was 
as great a genius, amused himself with making all 
sorts of puzzles ; and therefore, I think you need not 
be ashamed of reading them. It would be pretty en- 
tertainment for you to make a collection of the better 
ones, — for many are so dull that they are not worth 
spending time about. I will conclude by sending you 
a few which will be new to you. 



I often murmur, yet I never weep ; 

I always lie in bed, yet never sleep ; 

My mouth is wide, and larger than my head, 

And much disgorges though it ne'er is fed ; 

I have no legs or feet, yet swiftly run, 

And the more falls I get, move faster on. 



ON RIDDLES. 175 



Ye youths and ye virgins, come list to my tale, 

With youth and with beauty my voice will prevail. 

My smile is enchanting, and golden my hair, 

And on earth I am fairest of all that is fair ; 

But my name it perhaps may assist you to tell, 

That 1 'm banish'd alike both from heaven and hell. 

There 's a charm in my voice, 't is than music more 

sweet, 
And my tale oft repeated, untired I repeat. 
I flatter, I soothe, I speak kindly to all, 
And wherever you go, I am still within call. 
Though I thousands have blest, 't is a strange thing to 

say, 
That not one of the thousands e'er wishes my stay. 
But when most I enchant him, impatient the more, 
The minutes seem hours till my visit is o'er. 
In the chase of my love I am ever employed, 
Still, still he 's pursued, and yet never enjoyed ; 
O'er hills and o'er valleys unwearied I fly, 
But should I o'ertake him, that instant I die ; 
Yet I spring up again, and again I pursue, 
The object still distant, the passion still new. 
Now guess, — and to raise your astonishment most, 
While you seek me you have me, when found I am lost. 

in. 

I never talk but in my sleep ; 
I never cry, but sometimes weep ; 
My doors are open day and night ; 
Old age I help to better sight ; 
I, like chameleon, feed on air, 
And dust to me is dainty fare. 

IV. 

We are spirits all in white, 
On a field as black as night ; 
There we dance and sport and play, 
Changing every changing day ; 
Yet with us is wisdom found, 
As we move in mystic round. 



1 76 HYMNS. 

Mortal, wouldst thou know the grains 
That Ceres heaps on Libya's plains, 
Or leaves that yellow Autumn strews, 
Or the stars that Herschel views, 
Or find how many drops would drain 
The wide-scooped bosom of the main, 
Or measure central depths below, — 
Ask of us, and thou shalt know. 
With fairy feet we compass round 
The pyramid's capacious bound, 
Or step by step ambitious climb 
The cloud-capt mountain's height sublime. 

Riches though we do not use, 
'T is ours to gain, and ours to lose. 
From Araby the Blest we came. 
In every land our tongue 's the same ; 
And if our number you require, 
Go count the bright Aonian quire. 
Wouldst thou cast a spell to find 
The track of light, the speed of wind, 
Or when the snail with creeping pace 
Shall the swelling globe embrace ; 
Mortal, ours the powerful spell ; — 
Ask of us, for we can tell. 



H Y M N S. 



Come, let us praise God, for he is exceeding great : 
let us bless God, for he is very good. 

He made all things ; the sun to rule the day, the 
moon to shine by night. 

He made the great whale, and the elephant; and 
the little worm that crawleth on the ground. 

The little birds sing praises to God, when they war- 
ble sweetly in the green shade. 

The brooks and rivers praise God, when they mur- 
mur melodiously amongst the smooth pebbles. 



HYMNS. 177 

I will praise God with my voice ; for I may praise 
him, though I am but a little child. 

A few years ago, and I was a little infant, and my 
tongue was dumb within my mouth : 

And I did not know the great name of God, for my 
reason was not come unto me. 

But now I can speak, and my tongue shall praise 
him ; I can think of all his kindness, and my heart 
shall love him. 

Let him call me, and I will come unto him ; let him 
command, and I will obey him. 

When I am older, I will praise him better ; and I 
will never forget God, so long as my life remaineth 
in me. 

HYMN II. 

Come, let us go forth into the fields, let us see how 
the flowers spring, let us listen to the warbling of the 
birds, and sport ourselves upon the new grass. 

The winter is over and gone, the buds come out up- 
on the trees, the crimson blossoms of the peach and 
the nectarine are seen, and the green leaves sprout. 

The hedges are bordered with tufts of primroses, and 
yellow cowslips that hang down their heads ; and the 
blue violet lies hid beneath the shade. 

The young goslings are running upon the green ; 
they are just hatched, their bodies are covered with 
yellow down ; the old ones hiss with anger if any one 
comes near. 

The hen sits upon her nest of straw, she watches pa- 
tiently the full time, then she carefully breaks the shell, 
and the young chickens come out. 

The lambs just dropped are in the field, they totter 
by the side of their dams, their young limbs can hardly 
support their weight. 

If you fall, little lambs, you will not be hurt ; there 



178 HYMNS. 

is spread under you a carpet of soft grass ; it is spread 
on purpose to receive you. 

The butterflies flutter from bush to bush, and open 
their wings to the warm sun. 

The young animals of every kind are sporting about, 
they feel themselves happy, they are glad to be alive, 
they thank him that has made them alive. 

They may thank him in their hearts, but we can 
thank him with our tongues ; we are better than they, 
and can praise him better. 

The birds can warble, and the young lambs can 
bleat ; but we can open our lips in his praise, we can 
speak of all his goodness. 

Therefore we will thank him for ourselves, and we 
will thank him for those that cannot speak. 

Trees that blossom, and little lambs that skip about, 
if you could, you would say how good he is ; but you 
are dumb, we will say it for you. 

We will not offer you in sacrifice, but we will offer 
sacrifice for you ; on every hill, and in every green 
field, we will offer the sacrifice of thanksgiving, and 
the incense of praise. 

HYMN III. 

Behold the shepherd of the flock; he taketh care 
for his sheep, he leadeth them among clear brooks, he 
guideth them to fresh pasture : if the young lambs are 
weary, he carrieth them in his arms ; if they wander, 
he bringeth them back. 

But who is the shepherd's shepherd: who taketh 
care for him ? who guideth him in the path he should 
go ? and, if he wander, who shall bring him back ? 

God is the shepherd's Shepherd. He is the Shep- 
herd over all ; he taketh care for all ; the whole earth 
is his fold ; we are all his flock ; and every herb, and 
every green field is the pasture which he hath pre- 
pared for us. 



HYMNS. 179 

The mother loveth her little child ; she bringeth it up 
on her knees ; she nourisheth its body with food ; she 
feedeth its mind with knowledge : if it is sick, she 
nurseth it with tender love ; she watcheth over it when 
asleep ; she forgetteth it not for a moment ; she teach- 
eth it how to be good ; she rejoiceth daily in its growth. 

But who is the parent of the mother? who nourish- 
eth her with good things, and watcheth over her with 
tender love, and remembereth her every moment? 
Whose arms are about her to guard her from harm? 
and if she is sick, who shall heal her ? 

God is the Parent of the mother ; he is the Parent of 
all, for he created all. All the men, and all the women, 
who are alive in the wide world, are his children ; he 
loveth all, he is good to all. 

The king governeth his people ; he hath a golden 
crown upon his head, and the royal sceptre is in his 
hand; he sitteth upon a throne, and sendeth forth 
his commands ; his subjects fear before him ; if they 
do well, he protecteth them from danger ; and if they 
do evil, he punisheth them. 

But who is the sovereign of the king? who com- 
mandeth him what he must do ? whose hand is reached 
out to protect him from danger ? and if he doeth evil, 
who shall punish him ? 

God is the Sovereign of the king? his crown is of 
rays of light, and his throne is amongst the stars. He 
is King of kings, and Lord of lords : if he biddeth us 
live, we live ; and if he biddeth us die, we die : his do- 
minion is over all worlds, and the light of his counte- 
nance is upon all his works. 

God is our Shepherd, therefore we will follow him ; 
God is our Father, therefore we will love him ; God is 
our King, therefore we will obey him. 



180 HYMNS. 



HYMN IV. 



Come, and I will show you what is beautiful. It 
is a rose fully blown. See how she sits upon her 
mossy stem, like the queen of all the flowers ! her 
leaves glow like fire ; the air is filled with her sweet 
odor ! she is the delight of every eye. 

She is beautiful, but there is a fairer than she. He 
that made the rose is more beautiful than the rose ; 
he is all lovely ; he is the delight of every heart. 

I will show you what is strong. The lion is strong ; 
when he raiseth up himself from his lair, when he 
shaketh his mane, when the voice of his roaring is 
heard, the cattle of the field fly, and the wild beasts 
of the desert hide themselves, for he is very terrible. 

The lion is strong, but he that made the lion is 
stronger than he.: his anger is terrible ; he could make 
us die in a moment, and no one could save us out of 
his hand. 

I will show you what is glorious. The sun is glo- 
rious. When he shineth in the clear sky, when he 
sitteth on the bright throne in the heavens, and look- 
eth abroad over all the earth, he is the most excellent 
and glorious creature the eye can behold. 

The sun is glorious, but he that made the sun is 
more glorious than he. The eye beholdeth him not, 
for his brightness is more dazzling than we could bear. 
He seeth in all dark places ; by night as well as by 
day ; and the light of his countenance is over all his 
works. 

Who is this great name, and what is he called, that 
my lips may praise him ? 

This great name is GOD. He made all things, but 
he is himself more excellent than all which he hath 
made : they are beautiful, but he is beauty ; they are 
strong, but he is strength ; they are perfect, but he is 
perfection. 



HYMNS. 181 



HYMN V. 



The glorious sun is set in the west ; the night dews 
fall ; and the air, which was sultry, becomes cool. 

The flowers fold up their colored leaves ; they fold 
themselves up, and hang their heads on the slender 
stalk. 

The chickens are gathered under the wing of the 
hen, and are at rest ; the hen herself is at rest also. 

The little birds have ceased their warbling, they are 
asleep on the boughs, each one with his head behind 
his wing. 

There is no murmur of bees around the hive, or 
among the honeyed woodbines ; they have done their 
work, and lie close in their waxen cells. 

The sheep rest upon their soft fleeces, and their 
loud bleating is no more heard amongst the hills. 

There is no sound of a number of voices, or of 
children at play, or the trampling of busy feet, and of 
people hurrying to and fro. 

The smith's hammer is not heard upon the anvil ; 
nor the harsh saw of the carpenter. 

All men are stretched on their quiet beds ; and the 
child sleeps upon the breast of its mother. 

Darkness is spread over the skies, and darkness is upon 
the ground ; every eye is shut, and every hand is still. 

Who taketh care of all people when they are sunk 
in sleep ; when they cannot defend themselves, nor 
see if danger approacheth ? 

There is an eye that never sleepeth ; there is an eye 
that seeth in dark night as well as in the bright sun- 
shine. 

When there is no light of the sun, nor of the moon ; 
when there is no lamp in the house, nor any little star 
twinkling through the thick clouds ; that eye seeth 
everywhere, in all places, and watcheth continually 
over all the families of the earth. 



1 82 HYMNS. 

The eye that sleepeth not is God's ; his hand is 
always stretched out over us. 

He made sleep to refresh us when we are weary ; 
he made night, that we might sleep in quiet. 

As the mother moveth about the house with her 
finger on her lips, and stilleth every little noise, that 
her infant be not disturbed ; as she draweth the cur- 
tains around its bed, and shutteth out the light from 
its tender eyes ; so God draweth the curtains of dark- 
ness around us ; so he maketh all things to be hushed 
and still, that his large family may sleep in peace. 

Laborers spent with toil, and young children, and 
every little humming insect, sleep quietly, for God 
watcheth over you. 

You may sleep, for he never sleeps : you may close 
your eyes in safety, for his eye is always open to pro- 
tect you. 

When the darkness is passed away, and the beams 
of the morning sun strike through your eyelids, begin 
the day with praising God, who hath taken care of 
you through the night. 

Flowers, when you open again, spread your leaves, 
and smell sweet to his praise. 

Birds, when you awake, warble your thanks amongst 
the green boughs ; sing to him before you sing to your 
mates. 

Let his praise be in our hearts, when we lie down j 
let his praise be in our lips, when we awake. 

HYMN VI. 

Child of reason, whence comest thou? What 
has thine eye observed, and whither has thy foot been 
wandering ? 

I have been wandering along the meadows, in the 
thick grass ; the cattle were feeding around me, or 
reposing in the cool shade ; the corn sprung up in the 



HYMNS. 183 

furrows ; the poppy and the harebell grew among the 
wheat ; the fields were bright with summer, and glow- 
ing with beauty. 

Didst thou see nothing more? Didst thou observe 
nothing besides? Return again, child of reason, for 
there are greater things than these. 

God was among the fields ; and didst thou not 
perceive him ? his beauty was upon the meadows ; 
his smile enlivened the sunshine. 

I have walked through the thick forest ; the wind 
whispered among the trees ; the brook fell from the 
rocks with a pleasant murmur ; the squirrel leapt from 
bough to bough : and the birds sung to each other 
amongst the branches. 

Didst thou hear nothing but the murmur of the 
brook? no whispers but the whispers of the wind? 
Return again, child of reason, for there are greater 
things than these. God was amongst the trees ; his 
voice sounded in the murmur of the water ; his music 
warbled in the shade ; and didst thou not attend ? 

I saw the moon rising behind trees ; it was like a 
lamp of gold. The stars one after another appeared in 
the clear firmament. Presently I saw black clouds 
arise, and roll towards the south ; the lightning 
streamed in thick flashes over the sky; the thunder 
growled at a distance ; it came nearer, and I felt 
afraid, for it was loud and terrible. 

Did thy heart feel no terror but of the thunderbolt ? 
Was there nothing bright and terrible but the light- 
ning ? Return, O child of reason, for there are greater 
things than these. God was in the storm, and didst 
thou not perceive him ? His terrors were abroad, and 
did not thine heart acknowledge him ? 

God is in every place ; he speaks in every sound we 
hear ; he is seen in all that our eyes behold ; nothing, 
O child of reason, is without God : — let God there- 
fore be in all thy thoughts. 



HYMNS. 



HYMN VII. 



Come, let us go into the thick shade, for it is the 
noon of day, and the summer sun beats hot upon our 
heads. 

The shade is pleasant and cool ; the branches meet 
above our heads, and shut out the sun as with a green 
curtain ; the grass is soft to our feet, and a clear brook 
washes the roots of the trees. 

The sloping bank is covered with flowers ; let us lie 
down upon it; let us throw our limbs on the fresh 
grass and sleep ; for all things are still, and we are 
quite alone. 

The cattle can lie down to sleep in the cool shade, 
but we can do what is better ; we can raise our voices 
to heaven ; we can praise the great God who made 
us. He made the warm sun, and the cool shade ; 
the trees that grow upwards, and the brooks that 
run murmuring along. All the things that we see are 
his work. 

Can we raise our voices up to the high heaven? 
Can we make him hear who is above the stars ? We 
need not raise our voices to the stars, for he heareth 
us when we only whisper ; when we breathe out words 
softly with a low voice. He that filleth the heavens is 
here also. 

May we that are so young speak to him that always 
was ? May we, that can hardly speak plain, speak to 
God? 

We that are so young are but lately made alive ; 
therefore we should not forget his forming hand who 
hath made us alive. We that cannot speak plain, 
should lisp out praises to him who teacheth us how to 
speak, and hath opened our dumb lips. 

When we could not think of him, he thought of us ; 
before we could ask him to bless us, he had already 
given us many blessings. 



HYMNS. 185 

He fashioneth our tender limbs, and causeth them 
to grow ; he maketh us strong, and tall, and nimble. 

Every day we are more active than the former day, 
therefore every day we ought to praise him better than 
the former day. 

The buds spread into leaves, and the blossoms swell 
to fruit ; but they know not how they grow, nor who 
caused them to spring up from the bosom of the earth. 

Ask them if they will tell thee; bid them break 
forth into singing, and fill the air with pleasant sounds. 

They smell sweet; they look beautiful; but they 
are quite silent ; no sound is in the still air ; no mur- 
mur of voices amongst the green leaves. 

The plants and the trees are made to give fruit to 
man ; but man is made to praise God who made him. 

We love to praise him, because he loveth to bless 
us ; we thank him for life, because it is a pleasant 
thing to be alive. 

We love God, who hath created all beings ; we love 
all beings, because they are the creatures of God. 

We cannot be good, as God is good to all persons 
everywhere ; but we can rejoice that everywhere there 
is a God to do them good. 

We will think of God when we play, and when we 
work ; when we walk out, and when we come in ; 
when we sleep, and when we wake ; his praise shall 
dwell continually upon our lips. 

HYMN VIII. 

See where stands the cottage of the laborer covered 
with warm thatch ! the mother is spinning at the door ; 
the young children sport before her on the grass ; the 
elder ones learn to labor, and are obedient ; the father 
worketh to provide them food : either he tilleth the 
ground, or he gathereth in the corn, or shaketh his 
ripe apples from the tree ; his children run to meet 



1 86 HYMNS. 

him when he cometh home, and his wife prepareth the 
wholesome meal. 

The father, the mother, and the children, make a 
family ; the father is the master thereof. If the family- 
be numerous, and the grounds large, there are servants 
to help to do the work : all these dwell in one house ; 
they sleep beneath one roof; they eat of the same 
bread ; they kneel down together and praise God every 
night and every morning with one voice ; they are very 
closely united, and are dearer to each other than any 
strangers. If one is sick, they mourn together ; and if 
one is happy, they rejoice together. 

Many houses are built together ; many families live 
near one another ; they meet together on the green, 
and in pleasant walks, and to buy and sell, and in the 
house of justice : and the sound of the bell calleth 
them to the house of God, in company. If one is 
poor, his neighbor helpeth him ; if he is sad, he com- 
forteth him. This is a village ; see where it stands 
enclosed in a green shade, and the tall spire peeps 
above the trees. If there be very many houses, it is a 
town ; it is governed by a magistrate. 

Many towns, and a large extent of country, make a 
kingdom ; it is enclosed by mountains ; it is divided 
by rivers ; it is washed by seas ; the inhabitants thereof 
are countrymen ; they speak the same language ; they 
make war and peace together; a king is the ruler 
thereof. 

Many kingdoms and countries full of people, and 
islands, and large continents, and different climates, 
make up this whole world ; God governeth it. The 
people swarm upon the face of it like ants upon a hil- 
lock ; some are black with the hot sun ; some cover 
themselves with furs against the sharp cold ; some 
drink of the fruit of the vine ; some the pleasant milk 
of the cocoa-nut ; and others quench their thirst with 
the running stream. 



HYMNS. 187 

All are God's family ; he knoweth every one of 
them, as a shepherd knoweth his flock ; they pray to 
him in different languages, but he understandeth them 
all ; he heareth them all ; he taketh care of all ; none 
are so great that he cannot punish them ; none are so 
mean that he will not protect them. 

Negro woman, who sittest pining in captivity, and 
weepest over thy sick child : though no one seeth thee, 
God seeth thee ; though no one pitieth thee, God piti- 
eth thee : raise thy voice, forlorn and abandoned one ; 
call upon him from amidst thy bonds, for assuredly he 
will hear thee. 

Monarch, that rulest over an hundred states ; whose 
frown is terrible as death, and whose armies cover the 
land, boast not thyself as though there were none 
above thee : — God is above thee ; his powerful arm 
is always over thee ; and if thou doest ill, assuredly he 
will punish thee. 

Nations of the earth, fear the Lord ; families of men, 
call upon the name of your God. 

Is there any one whom God hath not made ? — let 
him not worship him. Is there any one whom he hath 
not blessed ? — let him not praise him. 



HYMN IX. 

Come, let us walk abroad ; let us talk of the works 
of God. 

Take up a handful of the sand ; number the grains 
of it ; tell them one by one into your lap. 

Try if you can count the blades of grass in the field, 
or the leaves on the trees. 

You cannot count them, they are innumerable ; 
much more the things which God has made. 

The fir groweth on the high mountain, and the gray 
willow bends above the stream. 



1 88 HYMNS. 

The thistle is armed with sharp prickles ; the mallow 
is soft and woolly. 

The hop layeth hold with her tendrils, and claspeth 
the tall pole : the oak hath firm root in the ground, and 
resisteth the winter storm. 

The daisy enamelleth the meadows, and groweth 
beneath the foot of the passenger : the tulip asketh a 
rich soil, and the careful hand of the gardener. 

The iris and the reed spring up in the marsh ; the 
rich grass covereth the meadows ; and the purple 
heath flower enliveneth the waste ground. 

The water lilies grow beneath the stream ; their 
broad leaves float on the surface of the water : the 
wall-flower takes root in the hard stone, and spreads 
its fragrance amongst the broken ruins. 

Every leaf is of a different form ; every plant hath a 
separate inhabitant. 

Look at the thorns that are white with blossoms, and 
the flowers that cover the fields, and the plants that 
are trodden in the green path. The hand of man hath 
not planted them ; the sower hath not scattered the 
seeds from his hand, nor the gardener digged a place 
for them with his spade. 

Some grow on steep rocks, where no man can 
climb : in shaking bogs, and deep forests, and desert 
islands : they spring up everywhere, and cover the 
bosom of the whole earth. 

Who causeth them to grow everywhere, and bloweth 
the seeds about in winds, and mixeth them with the 
mould, and watereth them with soft rains, and cherish- 
eth them with dews? Who fanneth them with the 
pure breath of heaven, and giveth them colors, and 
smells, and spreadeth out their thin transparent leaves ? 

How doth # the rose draw its crimson from the dark 
brown earth, or the lily its shining white? How can 
a small seed contain a plant ? How doth every plant 
know its season to put forth? They are marshalled 



HYMNS. 189 

in order : each one knoweth his place, and standeth 
up in his own rank. 

The snow-drop and the primrose make haste to 
lift their heads above the ground. When the spring 
cometh, they say, Here we are ! The carnation wait- 
eth for the full strength of the year ; and the hardy 
laurustinus cheereth the winter months. 

Every plant produceth its like. An ear of corn will 
not grow from an acorn ; nor will a grape-stone pro- 
duce cherries ; but every one springeth from its proper 
seed. 

Who preserveth them alive through the cold of win- 
ter, when the snow is on the ground, and the sharp 
frost bites on the plain? Who soweth a small seed, 
and a little warmth in the bosom of the earth, and 
causeth them to spring up afresh, and sap to rise 
through the hard fibres. 

The trees are withered, naked, and bare ; they are 
like dry bones. Who breatheth on them with the 
breath of spring, and they are covered with verdure, 
and green leaves sprout from the dead wood ? 

Lo, these are a part of his works ; and a little por- 
tion of his wonders. 

There is little need that I should tell you of God, 
for every thing speaks of him. 

Every field is like an open book ; every painted 
flower hath a lesson written on its leaves. 

Every murmuring brook hath a tongue : a voice is 
in every whispering wind. 

They all speak of him who made them ; they all 
tell us he is very good. 

We cannot see God, for he is invisible ; but we can 
see his works, and worship his footsteps in the green 
sod. 

They that know the most, will praise God the best ; 
but which of us can number half his works ? 



190 HYMNS. 



HYMN X. 



Look at that spreading oak, the pride of the village 
green ! Its trunk is massy, its branches are strong : its 
roots, like crooked fangs, strike deep into the soil, and 
support its huge bulk. The birds build among the 
boughs ; the cattle repose beneath its shade ; the 
neighbors form groups beneath the shelter of its green 
canopy. The old men point it out to their children, 
but they themselves remember not its growth : genera- 
tions of men one after another have been born and 
died, and this son of the forest has remained the same, 
defying the storms of two hundred winters. 

Yet this large tree was once a little acorn ; small in 
size, insignificant in appearance ; such as you are now 
picking up, upon the grass beneath it. Such an acorn, 
whose cup can only contain a drop or two of dew, 
contained the whole oak. All its massy trunk, all its 
knotty branches, all its multitude of leaves were in that 
acorn ; it grew, it spread, it unfolded itself by degrees, 
it received nourishment from the rain, and the dews, 
and the well adapted soil, but it w^s all there. Rain, 
and dews, and soil, could not raise an oak without the 
acorn ; nor could they make the acorn any thing but 
an oak. 

The mind of a child is like the acorn ; its powers 
are folded up, they do not yet appear, but they are all 
there. The memory, the judgment, the invention, the 
feeling of right and wrong, are all in the mind of a 
child, — of a little infant just born ; but they are not 
expanded, you cannot perceive them. 

Think of the wisest man you ever knew or heard of ; 
think of the greatest man ; think of the most learned 
man, who speaks a number of languages and can find 
out hidden things ; think of a man who stands like 
that tree, sheltering and protecting a number of his fel- 
low men, and then say to yourself, the mind of that 



HYMNS. 191 

man was once like mine, his thoughts were childish 
like my thoughts, nay, he was like the babe just bora, 
which knows nothing, remembers nothing, which can- 
not distinguish good from evil, nor truth from false- 
hood. 

If you had only seen an acorn, you could never 
guess at the form and size of an oak : if you had never 
conversed with a wise man, you could form no idea of 
him from the mute and helpless infant. 

Instruction is the food of the mind ; it is like the 
dew and the rain and the rich soil. As the soil and 
the rain and the dew cause the tree to swell and put 
forth its tender shoots, so do books and study and dis- 
course feed the mind, and make it unfold its hidden 
powers. 

Reverence therefore your own mind ; receive the 
nurture of instruction, that the man within you may 
grow and flourish. You cannot guess how excellent he 
may become. 

It was long before this oak showed its greatness ; 
years passed away, and it had only shot a little way 
above the ground ; a child might have plucked it up 
with his little hands. It was long before any one called it 
a tree ; and it is long before the child becomes a man. 

The acorn might have perished in the ground, the 
young tree might have been shorn of its graceful 
boughs, the twig might have bent, and the tree would 
have been crooked ; but if it grew at all, it could have 
been nothing but an oak ; it would not have been grass 
or flowers, which live their season and then perish 
from the face of the earth. 

The child may be a foolish man, he may be a 
wicked man, but he must be a man ; his nature is not 
that of any inferior creature, his soul in not akin to 
the beasts which perish. 

Oh, cherish then this precious mind, feed it with truth, 
nourish it with knowledge ; it comes from God, it is 



192 HYMNS. 

made in his image. The oak will last for centuries of 
years, but the mind of man is made for immortality. 

Respect in the infant the future man. Destroy not 
in the man the rudiments of an angel. 



HYMN XI. 

The golden orb of the sun is sunk behind the hills ; 
the colors fade away from the western sky, and the 
shades of evening fall fast around me. 

Deeper and deeper they stretch over the plain ; I 
look at the grass, it is no longer green ; the flowers 
are no more tinted with various hues ; the houses, the 
trees, the cattle, are all lost in the distance. The 
dark curtain of night is let down over the works of 
God ; they are blotted out from the view, as if they 
were no longer there. 

Child of little observation ! canst thou see nothing 
because thou canst not see grass and flowers, trees and 
cattle? Lift up thine eyes from the ground shaded 
with darkness, to the heavens that are stretched over 
thy head ; see how the stars one by one appear and 
light up the vast concave. 

There is the moon, bending her bright horns like a 
silver bow, and shedding her mild light like liquid 
silver over the blue firmament. 

There is Venus, the evening and the morning star ; 
and the Pleiades ; and the Bear, that never sets ; and 
the pole star, that guides the mariner over the deep. 

Now the mantle of darkness is over the earth ; the 
last little gleam of twilight is faded away ; the lights 
are extinguished in the cottage windows, but the firma- 
ment burns with innumerable fires ; every little star 
twinkles in its place. If you begin to count them, 
they are more than you can number; they are like 
the sands of the sea shore. 



HYMNS. 193 

The telescope shows you far more, and there are 
thousands and ten thousands of stars which no tele- 
scope has ever reached. 

Now Orion heaves his bright shoulder above the 
horizon ; and Sirius, the dog star, follows him, the 
brightest of the train. 

Look at the milky way : it is a field of brightness ; 
its pale light is composed of myriads of burning suns. 

All these are God's families : he gives the sun to 
shine with a ray of his own glory : he marks the path 
of the planets ; he guides their wanderings through the 
sky, and traces out their orbit with the finger of his 
power. 

If you were to travel as swift as an arrow from a 
bow, and to travel on, further and further still, for mil- 
lions of years, you would not be out of the creation of 
God. 

New suns in the depth of space would still be burn- 
ing round you, and other planets fulfilling their ap- 
pointed course. 

Lift up thine eyes, child of earth, for God has given 
thee a glimpse of heaven. 

The light of one sun is withdrawn, that thou mayest 
see ten thousand. Darkness is spread over the earth, 
that thou mayest behold, at a distance, the regions of 
eternal day. 

This earth has a variety of inhabitants ; the sea, 
the air, the surface of the ground, swarm with crea- 
tures of different natures, sizes, and powers ; to know 
a very little of them, is to be wise among the sons of 
men. 

What then, thinkest thou, are the various forms and 
natures and senses and occupations of the peopled 
universe ? 

Who can tell the birth and generation of so many 
worlds? Who can relate their histories? Who can 
describe their inhabitants? 

13 



194 HYMNS. 

Canst thou measure infinity with a line ? Canst thou 
grasp the circle of infinite space ? 

Yet these all depend upon God ; they hang upon 
Him as a child upon the breast of its mother ; He tem- 
pereth the heat to the inhabitant of Mercury ; He pro- 
vided! resources against the cold in the frozen orb of 
Saturn. Doubt not that He provideth for all beings 
that He has made. 

Look at the moon when it walketh in brightness ; 
gaze at the stars when they are marshalled in the 
firmament ; and adore the Maker of so many worlds. 



HYMN XII. 

It is now winter, dead winter. Desolation and 
silence reign in the fields ; no singing of birds is heard, 
no humming of insects. The streams murmur no 
longer ; they are locked up in frost. 

The trees lift their naked boughs, like withered 
arms, into the bleak sky ; the green sap no longer 
rises in their veins ; the flowers and the sweet-smell- 
ing shrubs are decayed to their roots. 

The sun himself looks cold and cheerless ; he 
gives light only enough to show the universal desola- 
tion. 

Nature, child of God, mourns for her children. A 
little while ago, and she rejoiced in her offspring ; the 
rose shed its perfume upon the gale ; the vine gave 
its fruit ; her children were springing and blooming 
around her, on every lawn and every green bank. 

O Nature, beautiful Nature, beloved child of God, 
why dost thou sit mourning and desolate ? Has thy 
father forsaken thee, has he left thee to perish ? Art 
thou no longer the object of his care? 

He has not forsaken thee, O Nature ; thou art his 
beloved child, the eternal image of his perfections ; his 



HYMNS. 195 

own beauty is spread over thee, the light of his coun- 
tenance is shed upon thee. 

Thy children shall live again, they shall spring up 
and bloom around thee ; the rose shall again breathe 
its sweetness on the soft air, and from the bosom of 
the ground verdure shall spring forth. 

And dost thou not mourn, O Nature, for thy human 
births ; for thy sons and thy daughters that sleep under 
the sod ; and shall they not also revive ? Shall the 
rose and the myrtle bloom anew, and shall man perish ? 
Shall goodness sleep in the ground, and the light of 
wisdom be quenched in the dust, and shall tears be 
shed over them in vain? 

They also shall live ; their winter shall pass away ; 
they shall bloom again. The tears of thy children shall 
be dried up, when the eternal year proceeds. Oh, come 
that eternal year ! 

HYMN XIII. 

Child of mortality, whence comest thou? why is 
thy countenance sad, and why are thine eyes red with 
weeping ? 

I have seen the rose in its beauty; it spread its 
leaves to the morning sun. I returned, — it was dying 
upon its stalk : the grace of the form of it was gone ; 
its loveliness was vanished away ; the leaves thereof 
were scattered on the ground, and no one gathered 
them again. 

A stately tree grew on the plain ; its branches were 
covered with verdure ; its boughs spread wide and 
made a goodly shadow ; the trunk was like a strong 
pillar ; the roots were like crooked fangs. I returned, 
— the verdure was nipped by the east wind ; the 
branches were lopped away by the axe ; the worm had 
made its way into the trunk, and the heart thereof was 
decayed ; it mouldered away, and fell to the ground. 



196 HYMNS. 

I have seen the insects sporting in the sunshine, 
and darting along the streams ; their wings glittered 
with gold and purple ; their bodies shone like the 
green emerald : they were more numerous than I 
could count ; their motions were quicker than my eye 
could glance. I returned, — they were brushed into 
the pool ; they were perishing with the evening breeze ; 
the swallow had devoured them ; the pike had seized 
them ; there were none found of so great a multitude. 

I have seen man in the pride of his strength ; his 
cheeks glowed with beauty ; his limbs were full of ac- 
tivity ; he leaped ; he walked ; he ran ; he rejoiced in 
that he was more excellent than those. I returned, — 
he lay stiff and cold on the bare ground ; his feet 
could no longer move, nor his hands stretch themselves 
out ; his life was departed from him ; and the breath 
out of his nostrils. Therefore do I weep because 
DEATH is in the world ; the spoiler is among the 
works of God. All that is made, must be destroyed ; 
all that is born, must die. Let me alone, for I will 
weep yet longer. 

HYMN XIV. 

I have seen the flower withering on the stalk, and 
its bright leaves spread on the ground. I looked 
again, and it sprung forth afresh ; the stem was crowned 
with new buds, and the sweetness thereof filled the air. 

I have seen the sun set in the west, and the shades 
of night shut in the wide horizon ; there was no color, 
nor shape, nor beauty, nor music ; gloom and darkness 
brooded around. I looked, the sun broke forth again 
from the east ; he gilded the mountain tops ; the lark 
rose to meet him from her low nest, and the shades of 
darkness fell away. 

I have seen the insect being come to its full size, 
languish and refuse to eat : it spun itself a tomb, and 



HYMNS. 197 

was shrouded in the silken cone ; it lay without feet, 
or shape, or power to move. 

I looked again, — it had burst its tomb ; it was full of 
life, and sailed on colored wings through the soft air ; 
it rejoiced in its new being. 

Thus shall it be with thee, O man ! and so shall thy 
life be renewed. 

Beauty shall spring up out of ashes ; and life out of 
the dust. 

A little while shalt thou lie in the ground, as the 
seed lieth in the bosom of the earth : but thou shalt be 
raised again ; and, if thou art good, thou shalt never 
die any more. 

Who is he that cometh to burst open the prison 
doors of the tomb ; to bid the dead awake, and to 
gather his redeemed from the four winds of heaven ? 

He descendeth on a fiery cloud; the sound of a 
trumpet goeth before him ; thousands of angels are on 
his right hand. 

It is Jesus, the Son of God ; the Savior of men ; 
the friend of the good. 

He cometh in the glory of his Father ; he hath re- 
ceived power from on high. 

Mourn not, therefore, child of immortality ; for the 
spoiler, the cruel spoiler, that laid waste the works 
of God, is subdued : Jesus hath conquered death. 
Child of immortality ! mourn no longer. 



HYMN XV. 

The rose is sweet, but it is surrounded with thorns : 
the lily of the valley is fragrant, but it springeth up 
amongst the brambles. 

The spring is pleasant, but it is soon past : the 
summer is bright, but the winter destroyeth the beauty 
thereof. 



198 HYMNS. 

The rainbow is very glorious, but it soon vanisheth 
away : life is good, but it is quickly swallowed up in 
death. 

There is a land where the roses are without thorns, 
where the flowers are not mixed with brambles. 

In that land, there is eternal spring, and light with- 
out any cloud. 

The tree of life groweth in the midst thereof; riv- 
ers of pleasures are there, and flowers that never fade. 

Myriads of happy spirits are there, and surround 
the throne of God with a perpetual hymn. 

The angels with their golden harps sing praises 
continually, and the cherubim fly on wings of fire. 

This country is Heaven : it is the country of those 
that are good ; and nothing that is wicked must in- 
habit there. 

The toad must not spit its venom amongst turtle 
doves : nor the poisonous henbane grow amongst 
sweet flowers. 

Neither must any one that doeth ill enter into that 
good land. 

This earth is pleasant, for it is God's earth, and it 
is filled with many delightful things. 

But that country is far better : there we shall not 
grieve any more, nor be sick any more, nor do wrong 
any more ; there, the cold of winter shall not wither 
us, nor the heats of summer scorch us. 

In that country there are no wars nor quarrels, but 
all love one another with dear love. 

When our parents and friends die, and are laid in 
the cold ground, we see them here no more ; but 
there we shall embrace them again, and live with 
them, and be separated no more. 

There we shall meet all good men, whom we read 
of in holy books. 

There we shall see Abraham, the called of God, 
the father of the faithful ; and Moses, after his long 



HYMNS. 199 

wanderings in the Arabian desert; and Elijah, the 
prophet of God ; and Daniel, who escaped the lion's 
den ; and there, the son of Jesse, the shepherd king, 
the sweet singer of Israel. 

They loved God on earth ; they praised him on 
earth ; but in that country they will praise him better, 
and love him more. 

There we shall see Jesus, who is gone before us to 
that happy place ; and there we shall behold the glory 
of the high God. 

We cannot see him here, but we will love him 
here ; we must be now on earth, but we will often 
think on heaven. 

That happy land is our home : we are to be here 
but for a little while, and there forever, even for ages 
of eternal years. 



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